Warcraft: Shackles of Fate
by AstralSpectre
Summary: With the Burning Legion crippled for the moment, the nations of Azeroth remain on high alert. Word spread of conspiracy among factions, and tensions rise again. None can be trusted. Meanwhile, a dark entity observes as his plans unfoil. [crossover]
1. Aspirations

Warcraft : Shackles of Fate

First off, it may be prudent of me to mention again that while this is a Warcraft story, it is also a crossover with another game. If you can't guess which game it is as the story advances, don't worry! I will give plenty of insight so that it could be just as enjoyable to those who don't know. Good readings to all!

-Prologue-

-Off the coast of Jaguero Isle. Several years after the latest war-

The team of goblins finished assembling together their makeshift flare, the early morning sky still a purplish orange haze from the view of Stranglethorn Vale. No other race could have attempted such a daring feat, nor could any other race even stand the blazing sun and humid atmosphere. In Stranglethorn, even late nights and early mornings were heated from the sun's work during the day. It was the best time to work, especially without the shade of the jungle's tropical trees to cool them.

One goblin, most likely the team's supervisor, shot the flare up into the sky, the dull sizzling sound of the launch preceding the high whining whistle of the signaling device, waking the lethargic oceanic surroundings. For a couple seconds, the vapid skies became alive and bright above the five-man vessel that wavered in the clear waters. Then, it died back down to its usual dark hue. There was a shout from the shore of Jaguero Isle. It was the director of the project, Gazlowe. Gazlowe's client advised that he lead the team directly using his skills in engineering. Flattered and, like all goblins, avaricious, he took Wharfmaster Dizzywig's ship from Ratchet to Booty Bay, hit the island with his crew, and began the job posthaste.

Gazlowe took a mental snap shot of the flare's location and took a glance at his map. He shook his head at his realization of their incompetence; they were too far off to the north.

"MOOOOORE SOOOOUUUUTH!" he shouted, his deep raspy voice echoing out at the sea. Again, the tiny vessel buzzed on and skittered south on calm waters. By the next few minutes, yet another flare shot up. Upon looking back at the map, Gazlowe smiled broadly. It was perfect.

The goblins out at sea saw Gazlowe's look of excitement from where they stood. With several cheers, the five small humanoids suited up for the ocean. They were ready to plunder the great seas. Once geared up, they hopped into the tepid water and began their work. They used their tiny backpack-motors to help them swim easier with their supplies; one of Gazlowe's own designs. They were surrounded all over by an assortment of fish, colorful craggy rocks, coral of many types, and the overlaying bluish tinge of the ocean's tropical waters. The sight of the striated fish and wonderful aquatic life would have seemed astounding to perhaps a human or gnome, but to a goblin, it was just another day of work. That and gold.

The supervisor led the group, the lamp attached to his helmet illuminating the darker depths. He paused for a brief moment, taking the time to point at the destination. The others gave him a thumb's up. As long as they didn't take too long, their oxygen tanks would save them from asphyxiation. And this particular job wouldn't take too long. Using Gazlowe's newest development, a special stone that slightly resisted gravity although stronger on certain parts of the world, they would finish in about an hour. Just the other day they had transfused those special stones into the opposite side of their destination, farther south of the island. Compared to that time, this was cake.

The supervisor fluttered about when he reached the destination. The others behind crashed clumsily against the walls of rock that soon surrounded them, sending them scrambling frantically as several boulders tumbled where they should have been. It wasn't unusual for a goblin or two to die during their arduous, and sometimes abusive, jobs. Still, they pressed forward, marveling for just a second at the giant heap of rock before them. It looked like a chunk of earth jutted from the ocean floor. Almost like an underwater island. The most mysterious aspect of it, though, was the impossibly enormous oval "covering" of the crag. It was the same color as the rock, but it made a different noise than the rock when knocked on, or so the goblins noticed. It spanned nearly three times the size of Jaguero Isle, from what they remembered, possibly the size of southern Stranglethorn Vale.

Taking out their tools, they fused in the stones, melting rock and ore. After an hour of utter hardship, it was complete.

Gazlowe saw their heads pop from the sea, bringing yet another great smile on his goblin face. In the time it took for the small engineers to drive their vessel back, a sound of internal implosion rang in their ears. Soon the sound became liquid, the sound of water being pushed aside. The same giant crag with the oval dome over it rose up from the water's surface, rising and leaving its slumber in the ocean. Streams of seawater gushed down from its sides, sounding like giant waterfalls. Gazlowe and the team of engineers cheered and whistled as the underwater wonder drifted not just afloat, but into the air. It hovered above water, the view so magnificent, the goblins couldn't keep their eyes off of it. The bottom of the crag was like an inverted mountain, only smaller and less steep. It was by far larger than the island they stood on, which was fairly spacious. The mysticism didn't stop there. The dome on top seemed to absorb the light from the sun gradually. But instead of a dry rocky appearance, it began to turn translucent, like a thin bubble around the floating island. Was it magic? They really did not care at that point. Soon enough it vanished completely, revealing a landscape like never before seen. It was even more beautiful than Stranglethorn's jungles and rainforests. Live animals actually flew around, unknown plants and trees covered nearly all of the top surface. It was like a whole new world, a new continent. Sort of.

Each goblin shook each other's hand in acknowledgment of their great accomplishment. And for the _very_ handsome rewards. Their client, according to the head engineer, was very mysterious indeed. Never heard of the person. Zeba, Seeja . . . her name was something along the lines of that. She didn't even see him in person, sent a satyr in her stead. It wasn't easy keeping a straight face in front of a humanoid demon creature venturing to Ratchet. She was probably a witch of some sort. But did it matter? Gazlowe just unearthed one of the greatest wonders in all of Azeroth. Not only would he be famous, he could also set up shop on that floating isle for when adventurous souls entered; a natural goldmine. But untrue to his nature(and for all goblins for that matter), he still couldn't stop wondering; why would such a lady ask them for such a job? And how did she know it existed?

-Chapter 1-

Stormwind, sixteen years after the last war. The streets were lit with the fires of elaborate Alliance torches again, carried by well-armored soldiers. The clatter of steel boots marched on and out of the enormous capital city. Aligned and in perfect order, the honorable men and women set out to battle once again. Nervous townsfolk stood outside the doors of their homes and at their windowpanes to see exactly what the commotion was about, cold and silent with fear. Some knew exactly what was happening.

The mighty army stood in their tracks upon order. Their commander, a rather muscular middle-aged man with a short red beard exposed through a gleaming silver helm looked back at his men with a look of incomprehensible bewilderment and fiery espirit de corps at the same time. He unsheathed a mighty sword and pointed it skyward. His men did the same.

"For the Alliance!" he yelled, ardor seething from his very voice and onto his faithful troops. The very next second, the soldiers were shouting, throwing armored hands into the air as they cheered.

"For the Alliance! For the Alliance!"

Those cheers in turn empowered the battle-weary commander, who wasted no time in the defense of his hometown and capital. The bandits, or outlaws, whoever they were, had done quite a number this time around. But enough was enough. For them, death was inevitable.

Each time they invaded, it was done in espionage, denying the Alliance of any clues as to what their intentions may have been. The oddity of their unsuccessful raids, though, was that each one appeared human. In these times, members of the infamous Horde would be suspected of such treacherous. But even more so ruling out the Horde was the manner in which they infiltrated the great city. Yes, there were casualties each of the three times, yet no deaths reported. These thugs were quite skilled . . . and merciful. Definitely not Horde-like. And here they were again. This time, they brought more friends along, and they didn't look as merciful. Whether Horde or any other kind of enemy, they had to be stopped at all costs. And more importantly, their cause brought to light. There was nothing more lethal than getting struck in the back in pitch darkness.

They came at them, dagger-wielding, leather-donning hoodlums who thought they stood a chance against enchanted armor and swords and shields. Against men with years of arduous training. It would be a one-sided onslaught. Yet, something about their weak numbers and poor equipment cried out to the Stormwind commander like the waking of a night terror. There was something greatly amiss.

In mere flashes of moments, swords met puny daggers evenly, the bandits falling by the third and fourth strikes. They fell like rodents against agile panthers, acting as if decoys. The mighty leader paused as his troops created minced meat out of the makeshift army, surveying the surroundings with distrusting eyes. There were additional elite guards within the walls of Stormwind, each backed up by the greatest of spell-casters in all the Alliance; no one was getting inside tonight. Yet, he was uneasy.

In the several seconds it took to wipe out the foolish outlaws, a slightly larger legion materialized from the horizon, darkening the orange-red hue of the sunset. They were equally equipped with the same armaments. They were sliced and pierced in the same manner, emitting their cries of pain.

"Commander Alheid," came a voice from the fields behind him. It was his second-in-command, Roy Hines.

"Speak quickly," Alheid demanded, his voice swift yet soundly patient.

"The enemy forces are falling quickly, but surely you've noticed the wave of attacks?" The sergeant looked quite distressed beneath his still-youthful features, a look that wasn't too different from the one Alheid wore. "We've received reports from messengers of Northshire stating the same is happening there. What should we do, commander? Do we remain and continue to defend the capital or do we call in the elite guards for the defense and help Northshire?" Alheid did not answer.

The commander's eyes sharpened as he witnessed the cause of the never-ending forces. Each corpse on the field vanished after a set amount of time, quickly followed by another thug approaching from the horizon. An arcane spell of trickery so finely crafted, it made it hard to even notice the disappearance of the bodies. Even as he noticed it, Alheid raised his weapon and turned to Hines. They meant to just slow them for a brief moment. He was sure of it.

"Listen carefully, I need you to hold off the battle out here against these outlaws. There is something I must see to in Northshire. Don't let them pass the city gates!" The young sergeant had sparks of doubt in his eyes, but still he nodded solidly and replied with a "yes, sir". The stand-stilled battle ensued.

"Sir," Hines blurted before Alheid took off on horseback. "What shall I tell His Commandership?"

Alheid paused and thought about the newly crowned hero and leader of the Alliance and couldn't help but sigh. He was young, dashing, and inexplicably diplomatic and strategic; a perfect leader. Yet, he acted slowly at times, as if he had motives for every action. The respect for him was definitely there, though. A lot has changed since his ascendance.

"Tell His Commandership and the National Council that I have a hunch what these bandits are looking for lies in Northshire."

-Jargoload Mine, due south of the Alliance capital.-

The sun had finished casting its final rays onto the tanned, rugged land of Jargoload Mine, a savior to the miners within. The bromide-induced miners threw their picks onto the supply carts with sighs of relief, their sweaty bodies in need of long hours of baths and rest.

"G'night, Ralph," said a dwarf miner, his accent thick.

"Same, Vulmer," replied the mid-aged human man, a tired smile on his weathered, dusty face. "Think the wife has a special banquet planned for you tonight?"

The dwarven miner smiled just as tiredly back, shaking his head. "Oh, but of course! Mi'lady always has a banquet waiting fer her ol' hubby!"

The two waved their good-byes, the gruff man moving over toward the stream nearest to the mine. He knelt down beside the calm currents, took handfuls of the stream's clean water, and splashed some on his face. With a brief sigh, he looked up where the valley met the dry, orange sky, a sight that greeted him nearly every day. Always serene, the view lingered in his mind for hours every time, reminding him somewhat of the past. Except this time there wouldn't be that moment of blissful reminiscing. Several figures moved speedily along not too far from the stream, an oddity completely out of the ordinary. Not just the movement of one, but many, breaking the humdrum custom and startling him to his feet. Furious to the point where he had to mutter darkly to himself, the older miner placed his right hand on a weapon he was too familiar with. The sword gleamed from what was left of the departing sun, halfway out of its hilt.

Ralph squinted, viewing a rather nostalgic scene of several horse-back riders, probably merchants, stride past in a hurry. If that was the case, he'd have no need to worry. However, his assumptions changed when he saw their pursuers; a small brigade of knights. They charged angrily after them, hollering dark words at the brigands as they headed off east toward Twilight Grove. Ralph enjoyed his share of the old "knights versus bandits" cliche, but he couldn't involve himself, not anymore. Not at his very ripe age. And the fact that he was told to look after the boy . . .

He gazed for a moment off at the distance near the shore, noticing with tight unease the boy and his goblin companion. Both of them oblivious to the scene, they wandered the shore and disappeared off like before. And thankfully, so did the knights and bandits. If there was anything he wanted more in the world, it was to keep the people he loved as far away possible from the desolate ideals of being a hero in the army. That and to move to one of the many gorgeous islands in Stranglethorn. Regaining his mellow mood again, he silently cursed the nobles in Stormwind for causing such commodities. A young lad as ingenious as Xadek's should not be exposed to such things. Yet, all that those filthy politics knew was how to stir up things for the sake of their selfish desires. In fact, he'd bet fifty gold he didn't have that those bandits weren't even so bad, probably trying to make a living through the diminutive ray of hope they so hung on to. Things haven't improved since that new council assembled either. Ralph was probably the first to admit, though, that the war before that occurred sixteen years back was, indeed, a horrific one. As grateful as he was to the knights, it didn't change his perspective on them as a whole. Plus, the conflicts only died down for a bit. Lately, there was gossip spreading of how rogue agents infiltrated the capital after dusk, and how the Horde planned to secretly plot Stormwind's demise from the inside using those rogues. Some even spoke of a sharp rise in the demon population to the far north. It was all rubbish. Those damn fops with their pretty clothes and pretty armor only meant to ignite more tension for their greedy agendas. He'd seen it occur plenty times before.

Ralph found himself taken by surprise when he heard raging shouts off in the distance. Did it have something to do with the outlaws? The rioting sounds were coming from up north, where the town of Northshire stood. But there were no longer just shouts, but screams and cries of agony echoed through the valley. He felt his stomach tie into knots at the thoughts that began to fill his clouded mind. However, the very next thought that came to him was that of the boy. As the shouts intensified, he broke out into a run toward the two boys. He found himself picking up speed as the sounds of metal on metal rose to a screeching pitch in his ears; at least the guards were lasting. What in Azeroth was going on in Northshire? Did it have to do with those bandits running off? Those questions would have to remain unanswered. He had to help. However, what scared him most was that Xadek was in town to meet with some elfin representative. There wasn't time to think, just act.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

It was getting way too dark and both the human and goblin had been working on the report nonstop for hours that day. The shores off of Westfall were ideal for concentration for studying the heritage of goblins as a whole. And there was always Chappy to help fill in the blanks. Chappy groaned, not content that he finished.

"Why do we have to leave _now_?" he complained, his raspy goblin voice normally irritating to the average folk. "I was on a roll here! There was also the engineering revolution and the discovery of alkaline modulators."

"Chappy, I've got to get back and take care of things back at home." The human boy wore a look of amusement. He was sixteen years of age, but he had the mentality of a young man. "I really appreciate all this, though."

The goblin nodded, his toothy smile as broad as his face could stretch.

"My pleasure! Helping out a friend is good for business."

"Heh, right," the boy said. He had gotten so used to Chappy's quirks, he never bothered to ask what he meant. After all, he grew up with the goblins, the pleasant creatures quickly becoming his good friends.

"You're welcome to stay over, you know," said the boy, "Xadek wouldn't mind."

"Sure, that sounds like a deal."

He rolled up the project that nearly took them all day. It was on goblin history, so Chappy was the best candidate for it. He was also a good con artist when the need arose. The assignment wasn't due for another whole week, so he had time to spend meanwhile. Perhaps him and Chappy would travel up to Stormwind again.

"You know," the goblin began, "you should really think about becoming an engineer. Has great perks and is highly in demand!"

"Thanks, but no thanks. You need to be good at inventing and marketing for that. Besides, you already know what I want to do." His face became a bit more solemn, if not slightly irritated. "The only reason I'm taking engineering classes is because of my father and uncle."

"Still trying to be a Paladin?" the goblin shrilled wryly.

"Shhh! Don't tell the whole world!"

"Oh, that's right, sorry," he apologized, "forgot your uncle hated them."

"I don't care! One day, I'm gonna be one, just like my father!"

"Incoming!"

At the goblin's warning, the boy hushed, noticing a worried Ralph running in their direction. He wore a look of what seemed like distress. Then again, he trained his eyes on him like a hawk whenever his dad told him to look after him. He probably saw a makruka somewhere off shore and panicked.

Not long before Ralph reached them, they heard what most likely startled him. There was yelling and screaming and, worst of all, dying. He heard it all.

"Is there some kind of play in town I don't know about?" the boy asked nervously.

"I don't think that's what it is," said Chappy with a frown.

"Jedo, Chappy!" his uncle called out. He was out of breath and quite fearful, a look he hadn't seen on his uncle's face ever. It terrified him.

"W-What is it?" Jedo questioned, wiping his hands as he got off the sandy bank.

"Listen to what I say and _don't_ disobey me!" he began, his rugged face wrinkled with fret. "You must go to Saldean's Farm and remain there with Annie. Don't move from there until I return, understood?"

"What's happening?" Jedo shouted, a fiery look in his eyes. "Is something wrong in Northshire? What happened to dad?!"

"Nothing happened to your father! There seems to be a riot up in town, so I'm just taking a look-see. Just to make sure. Don't forget, I used to . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, used to be a soldier," he finished. "But I want to go! If Dad's in danger . . ."

"Out of the question! Your father told me to make sure you were kept safe. Besides, he's a general in the militia of Stormwind! He can very well take care of himself."

Jedo nodded his head, the flaring anger still visible in his eyes.

"Trust me," the uncle said with a forced smirk, "it was probably just a bunch of hooligans at worst. Your father and I will make swift work of them."

Jedo forced a straight face and even managed not to say anything.

"I'll be heading over to Stonefield Farm to borrow a horse. I'll be back before dawn, okay Jedo?"

Without waiting for a response, Ralph dashed off until he became a small dot on the horizon.

"Damn!" shouted the boy, his instincts gripping him and screaming. Something was not right. Hooligans? It sounded more like another country was invading. And it couldn't have been the Horde; Jedo knew that the borders around Alliance territory were heavily guarded with the exception of the farmlands. There was an even larger guard down on the contested territories, like Stranglethorn just south where he stood. In other words, this was a completely unexpected attack by unknown people.

"Um, Jedo," Chappy finally said, afraid to disturb Jedo's thoughts, "shouldn't we head south to the farm, like your uncle said . . . ?" The reply he got was just as he expected from the overzealous and angst-filled adolescent.

"No, I'm not running. I'm sixteen already! Many of my friends are already enrolled to be knights and paladins. I have to prove to them that I am worthy of being one. I've practiced endlessly, but still they act like just a child. It's in my blood!"

"Ugh, but we could sneak off to Stormwind and enroll you again, like last time."

"And I'm still here studying how to be an engineer!"

The goblin ceased to sway his resolve. He had a very mature way of thinking, but it seemed when it came to his idealistic thinking, he was actually very naive.

Chappy sighed in a defeated tone, his shoulders slumping down along with his arms. "Looks like I'd better bring the ionic malachite scopes."


	2. Former Lives

-Chapter 2-

-Tirisfal Glades, Eastern Continent, moments before Northshire attack-

It had taken all day but the trip was over and done with. At least getting there. The Undercity was a giant chilling crypt compared to the other capitals he had been to, and Kolark was seconds away from turning back at the empty Lordaeron Ruins when an undead shambled over and got his attention. Kolark sighed with reluctance. The Tauren bounty hunter walked over to where the pale undead stood watching him intently, or at least it seemed. His glowing eyes matched his bland, expressionless face. He wore a discolored, tattered old robe that would otherwise appall a normal human. Aside from the dingy apparel was the more noticeable lacerations and bone protruding on the outside of the ghostly white film the residents of the Undercity called skin.

Kolark's nose cringed at the stench the dead man emitted and only thought it natural; he was dead, and he lost nearly all his sense of smell. Without a word, the two passed through the derelict halls that were once parts of the castle of Lordaeron. Pillars lay crumbled on the gray stone floor, weeds overtook many corners of the decaying walls, and even the throne room stood abandoned by its once humble occupants. All of it lay on the grimy soil, not even a ceiling to offer. Scattered boulders(probably the ceiling) blocked off much access to the other parts. However, as the halls sloped further down into the dungeons, the sounds of the dead became audible. Kolark heard the shouts of anguish beneath, the sound of the mad alchemists performing their ungodly experiments on the hapless humans they managed to pluck from above. He heard the cold, wicked laughs of creatures that were once human. And soon, he'd be in the heart of their capital.

Two rather large, plump monsters guarded a most unusual door at the end of the dungeon. Aside from their mutant, dumbfounded faces, Kolark could see the extra appendages added on to the bulky sack of fat, each one holding a different intimidating weapon. Some body parts showed signs of stitching together. Some weren't even stitched at all, guts hanging out like they belonged there. They managed to turn and look at him, their breathing changing to a low-pitched hiss.

"Tauren, you here at last," one of them managed to babble. The sound of its voice was like a guttural moan. "Dark Lady wait for while now. Go fastest, or she get mad!"

The bounty hunter simply nodded, wondering in deep interest how the undead managed to create such monstrosities. It came as a surprise to most, but by taking advantage of the Plague's resilience, the Forsaken were able to engineer "living" beings. Nonetheless, they were formidable guards.

The door they looked tediously after finally jolted up, revealing a small cylindrical-shaped chamber; it was simply an elevator down into the city. It descended quite speedily. When it came to a stop, the undead escort pulled up his hood, turned to him, and rasped out "Let us make haste."

With those words, they entered the trade center of the underground capital. It was Kolark's first time visiting the place after Lordaeron's downfall by Scourge hands, and it was a horrifically beautiful place. It was dank and cold and smelled of death and rot. The trade center was dome-like, nearly reaching some eighty to one hundred feet up from where he stood. This room too was cylindrical in addition to vast and wide. In the center was an enormous pillar with platforms where the Forsaken's bank stood, and further down below were more unseen areas, the only viewable spots lit by the dancing flames on torches. On the lowest floor, neon green liquid surrounded the outer circumference like an underground moat, the source oozing from various orifices on the walls. Among the giant room, many undead walked hunched over and uncaringly, carrying about their sluggish activity. Some glared curiously in his direction and then got back to their work. Others muttered darkly in a tongue he couldn't quite understand. All over, large posts advertised items of all sorts; weapons, enchanted apparel, even food.

After navigating through the small crowds of the trade market, they got to yet another circular hall on the outside of the it and met with several Dreadguards, the ones who guarded the Royal Chambers. They eyed him carefully, noticing his red leather-strapped cuirass and pants. They nodded and led him in deeper into the chambers. A brief moment later, a spacious hall opened up, dome-like again, and there stood the banshee queen Lady Sylvanas, the Dark Lady as the Forsaken called her. And next to her was the raging demon minion of hers, yelling at one of her subordinates as he held him up in the air with one fist around his neck.

"Don't you dare think you can deceive the Dark Lady and live, petty grunt!" he growled viciously, his face distorted with gleeful rage and ruthlessness. He held him tightly above a chasm that led to the lowest of floors, which he soon discovered was a pit of stalagmites dipped in smoldering green acid. The leader of the Forsaken stood up and watched the traitor with glowing and unfeeling eyes.

"You were working for them, just as I had suspected all along," she said, her voice spectral and as cold as the very chamber. "I had my greatest spies on you the entire time. Although you have actually helped me by locating your renegade brethren, I cannot excuse such treachery."

The demon beside her halted his lust, glancing once at his queen for approval. The traitor couldn't even mutter a word through the monster's iron grip. Sylvanas merely made a fancy waving gesture and the demon at her side tossed him down like a rag doll. Kolark watched in horror as the undead man tumbled down, his unnatural shouts echoing in utter dismay. The Tauren swallowed hard, his heart at his throat. The high-pitched sound of impalement rang in his ears for nearly half a minute followed by the awful sizzling noise of acid on flesh, until Sylvanas herself spoke aloud to him, breaking him from his trance.

"Ah, I have been awaiting your arrival," she began, her voice a tiny bit more forgiving this time. Her physical form reflected that of a Night Elf, for that was her origin. Tall with pointed ears, slim body, and eye brows extending passed the face, she would have been identical to the forest-dwellers had it not been for the pale sheen of death on her skin. She actually smiled, a rare sight according to most who had the luxury, or misfortune, to see her. "I apologize for exposing you to my more gruesome work. Yet, I must say, it is wonderful to know that as far away as they are, Thunder Bluff would extend a hand at such benighted hours as these." Her words would have seemed kind if her tone was less . . . dark.

"Well, actually, although I've been given the job by them, I don't represent Thunder Bluff whatsoever," Kolark replied in kind.

"Watch how you speak to Lady Sylvanas, knave!" spat the instigating demon, his wings spanning out as he uncrossed his bulky arms. "I should banish you to the Nether for your loose tongue!"

"Enough, Varimathras," the stolid queen scolded. "So, Kolark, you are a bounty hunter, I presume?"

"Yes, that is correct, my lady," Kolark answered with much more esteem than the first.

"Good. Either way you can be of assistance." The look on her face became a sinister one filled with outrage. "As of late, there have been incidents among us where our warlocks have suddenly gone against us, starting their own cults in attempt to overthrow the Forsaken thrown. It has been occurring sporadically, no set patterns or reasons as to how or why. Word has it even Orgrimmar has the same situation with their warlock brethren. My first guesses would lean toward the Scourge, their services to the Lich King ever so plentiful . . . and fruitless. But I fear because it extends as far as Kalimdor and the warlocks are apprentices of the dark arts that this may have something to do with the weakened Burning Legion." Her voice went from a hiss to a roar.

"None shall escape the wrath of the Forsaken, the fallen ones! Not the Scourge, Burning Legion, or the Alliance itself. It is just as futile as endeavoring to understand my pain, my suffering! Not any of you living fools can even fathom what this torment is like, to be enveloped in eternal agony as I, a slave to hatred!"

Kolark watched in awe as the undead queen's moods suddenly shifted. She seemed to calm down after a short while, running out of breath, if such a thing could even occur in an undead. Her minion glared maliciously at her visitor, his horns making him all the more devilish.

"Has he upset you, my lady? Just say the word and I shall teach him manners in the most torturous way a Dreadlord knows." The dark queen shook her head wearily.

"No. It is my own fault. I must take control of myself, for at times like these I lose myself to my pain. Kolark, such deceitfulness cannot keep me stable. That is why I must ask you to seek out their hideaway and give me as much detailed information on their actions as you can scrounge. Then, the Horde shall strike them down!"

"That is my specialty, my lady," Kolark said, trying his best not to look at her enraged demoniacal minion, who eyed him with maleficent intent.

"I am counting on you. You are the only one at the moment who can accomplish this, unfortunately. The others in Orgrimmar are busy with the Burning Blade, and my men must remain to defend against the recent rising threat of those human Scarlet fools, so I need good results, no exceptions."

With his composure at its peak, Kolark bowed down deeply and finished off by saying, "Nothing but the best for the Forsaken."

"For the Forsaken!" saluted Sylvanas and her Dreadguards. And with that, his summoning was adjourned until his mission became a success. Kolark walked out, letting out a deep breath of relief. It felt even more chilly in the royal chambers than it did in the rest of the expansive districts of the Undercity. He sighed, wondering if he really needed the money that badly to serve the Forsaken. Then, he wondered where the nearest tavern was; he was long overdue for a drink.

* * *

Northshire was a wreck. Although the houses and trade stands stood untouched, people scurried everywhere shouting and screaming, and guards moved about in revelation of the attack. And from the distance, the abbey loomed over the battle like the target of the brigands. Ralph unsheathed the weapon he hoped to never unsheathe, his beloved short sword. With ardor flowing within him that he hadn't felt in years, Ralph, even at his old age, ran into the clatter of metal and death cries.

Well-armored guards of Northshire fought bravely, the worst of the casualties just mildly scrapped. It was the opposition that was falling, and quick, too. They seemed almost as a sacrifice for some greater motive. Ralph saw a family near the tavern, a mother and two children. Their eyes displayed the same terror that had shown sixteen years ago, during the end of the last war. With a battle shout equal to that of the youth, he stepped in and slew the nearest bandit, who had luckily paid the civilians no mind. Looking at the bloody mess, he quickly turned to the family and instructed them to enter the tavern's second floor where the others took refuge. It would be much safer than the streets.

"T-Thank you, brave knight!" said the trembling woman, her children glued to her in dread on both sides of her arms. They heeded his words. Ralph let out a long drawn breath as he surveyed the area for similar dangers; all was relatively sound.

"Brave knight, huh?" he thought. Those words rekindled a fire within him only for a brief moment.

Ralph made his way toward the abbey on the hill, making quick work of the oncoming unskilled invaders. They were plentiful in numbers for mere bandits, and he couldn't help but wonder how many more would stand in his way. And even stranger yet, they went straight for the guards, as if trying to beguile them into attacking them. True bandits had no honor, Ralph knew. Why, then, didn't they take hostages when they had the clear chance? Why did they not target civilians? It was both a relief and a stressor at the same time.

He stood in front of the entrance to the tower, noticing three immobile invaders guarding the arching doorway. Two of them charged him immediately, simple daggers and swords in hand. He parried the first striker's attack deftly enough to parry the second's and finished with a swift diagonal sheer at the second attacker's chest. Leather and skin tore at the mighty swing as the man fell backward with a cry of pain. He turned to his other opponent waiting for his move only to realize the third guard took his rear. With a gasp filled with anger for leaving his back open, he was knocked back by the assailant before him as he attempted to guard the heavy blow. Behind, he felt the cold steel fall upon him and cut through bare fabric, knew he would suffer a mortal gash. However, there was a slashing burn where the attacker struck, one that only made him wince more from the thought of death than anything else. Aside from the sore burn on his back, Ralph still stood.

He didn't question it yet. He ducked, dodging the next two attacks completely, then made a drawn-out swing as he lifted himself up, catching one of the bandits in his shoulder. Sparks flew from the open wound, so faint he thought it was a trick of the eye. The bandit reeled back, clutching his wound. It was magic. The damn villains were empowered by arcane magic, he knew it. He'd seen it before. With a smile clamping onto his older features, Ralph put out his free hand, chanting a few words.

"Oh righteous Light, empower me with strength! Seal of Purity!"

At those words, the illusion of a thug dissolved into a powdery substance, then dissipated altogether. He turned to the injured bandit, who seemed ready to strike again. Another blast from his palm and it too disintegrated. Silence soon permeated through the tiny village. Ralph's attention changed when he heard the sound of horses in the distance. The cavalry? Had those good-for-nothing knights finally realized there was an attack? After all, Stormwind's king and the Alliance leader were mere nobles, probably relaxing in their large armchairs, sipping their fancy wine.

"Sir Ralph?" called out a guard from the town. Ralph eyed him irately, putting his sword back into his hidden scabbard.

"'Sir Ralph', you call me?"

"I apologize, it's a habit," said the young cadet. "What are you doing here? And with no armor whatsoever . . . ? You could've been killed!"

"Aw, don't give me that," Ralph replied. "These fools were merely illusionary enchantments."

"Really? Is that why they were pathetically easy to defeat? And I thought my training was paying off." He saluted the old veteran and smiled. "Thank you for the help, citizen, but the abbey remains unprotected. I must resume my duties now and inspect. By the way, your brother is inside the tavern, guarding the civilians. He was worried for you when he received word that you came."

How his brother knew he was here was beyond him. However, one thought came to mind, one he didn't like one bit.

"Thank you for the info, that's just who I was looking for."

In the tavern, beside his goblin friend sat Jedo, his expression more disappointed than anything else. In front of him stood a nettled Xadek. The boy's father was clad in his silver-plated armor, his arms on his hips. He shook his head in disapproval.

"Now that we're alone, I want to ask you what the hell you were thinking?" he questioned his son. Chappy, too, was just looking down in shame.

"You two were in great danger here! Where is Ralph?"

"He had nothing to do with this," Jedo said miserably.

"I know that, trust me," spat his father. "Knowing your uncle, he probably told you to wait somewhere. If he finds out you're here . . ."

As if in reply to his unfinished statement, Ralph entered the now empty tavern, his eyes fiery red.

"Ah, Ralph, so you did come," let out his brother in a good-natured tone.

"Yes, I did. And what do my eyes perceive? My bratty nephew here, and with a sword, when I specifically told him not to follow!"

"Now, now, brother," Xadek said calmly, a smile placed on his younger features, "the important thing is that we are all in one piece. Have the knights arrived? We sent a messenger to Stormwind for what seemed hours ago!"

"Yeah, unfortunately," came a grumpy reply.

Jedo got up to stretch and attempted to leave the tavern with Chappy, but to no avail.

"Sit down!" roared both Xadek and Ralph in unison. Surely enough, they sat down that instant.

"I'm not done with you!" his father scolded. "Firstly, where did you get that sword from?"

"Yeah, I'm wondering the same thing," added his uncle.

"Well. . ."

Several mutters came from outside the tavern doors and a loud shout ensued.

"All men report!"

"Ah, looks like you're saved, for now," Xadek said with a wry smirk.

The general of four major Stormwind battalions walked casually over to the door, his plates clattering loudly along the way. The cavalry must've found something of importance in the abbey. As soon as his presence was far gone from the room, Jedo's uncle gave him a glare of lightning. He had been an earthquake in a can all the while, and with Xadek attending to some nobleman, now was a better time than any to explode.

"I told you to go to Annie's!!" he growled, his face reddened with rage.

"And I told you I wanted to help!" Jedo retorted, unsure whether defending his dreams was worth several broken limbs.

"No! You cannot fight, Jedo! I told you that, and I also mentioned it was dangerous! I should pound you into a pile of dust for this!"

At that point, Ralph was nearing the slowly shrinking boy, who just stood in contemplation. Then, there came a raspy voice.

"It was my idea, really," said the goblin at Jedo's side, rubbing his sweaty palms together. "I enticed him to do it. I thought . . . it would be good for business."

Chappy cringed, his entire body slightly quivering. The lie would be his downfall.

"Oh, really?" retorted Ralph. "Then I don't suppose you supplied him the sword either . . . did you?!"

"Oh, that sword?" Chappy said with a nervous smile. "It's my latest invention . . . er, in the making! A mechanized sword . . . with radioactive . . . zapper thingies. It just hasn't been going too great, so I thought it would be a good idea to test what I got so far."

Jedo gave the goblin an apologetic look, probably for his death in the next few seconds. Ralph pulled the sword from Jedo's sheath and used it to daunt the puny goblin.

"Ah, an experiment. Well, Jedo sure couldn't test the sword well. Maybe someone more hard-hitting such as I can test the weapon better . . . on a wretched goblin who thinks he can almost get my nephew killed and get away with it!"

The angry Ralph was cut short from continuing his rabid "disciplining" when Xadek came inside, a grim line for a mouth. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and simply nodded, calming the giant geezer. Jedo looked at him suspiciously.

"Well, Jedo," he began his tone seeming unenthusiastic, "it looks like we have good news and bad news. First of all, I'm gonna have to go on leave again."

"That must be the good news, eh?" joked Ralph, who's mirthful look wasn't returned.

"Very funny, but the good news goes to Jedo."

The boy looked up at his father with a spark of hope, perhaps more than that. His heart raced for the small duration it took the general to announce the news.

"A very good friend of mine is willing to train you to become what you always yearned to be."

"You mean, I can become a Paladin, just like that?"

"What?!" cried Ralph in a stupor.

"That's right. I'm allowing Archbishop Benedictus to take you into the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind for training. Once there, he and two others will guide you in the ways of the Light. Sound good?"

Lost in amazement and a stupor of his own, he shared the same facial expression as his uncle, only less painful-looking. He could just shake his head in utter disbelief as a large smile peered on his face.

"Of course! It's what I've always wanted to do! Thank you father, I won't let you down!"

"Come now, we must introduce you to the Archbishop then."

"Hold it!" protested Ralph, no longer afraid of concealing their talks from the young boy. "Did we not both agree that he would not enlist? Did we not promise ourselves that, Xadek? It is too dangerous nowadays to become a knight! Soldiers die each day!"

Waving a hand in dismissal, the general smiled, his eyes showing no signs of guilt or fear.

"He is not being enlisted, just trained, Ralph. I still completely agree, now more than ever are soldiers dying. But thanks to the council, there has been a brief moment of peace, a perfect time to assess his skills. We need more defenders in the family, and that's just what I'll allow him to be." He took off his helmet, revealing semi-long blond hair that seemed typical of a Stormwind hero. His finely chiseled features and sharp, blue eyes added to that charm. "How do you think I felt about Minerva?" he added.

Jedo kept his glance low, for he knew very little of the woman his father loved. In fact, he wasn't even Xadek's actual blood son. Not only did he once overhear a most saddening conversation, but he even remembers bits and parts of his first memory with the knight. Xadek always said he'd grow up to be a very important man some day. And ever since, he embraced that theory.

"Fine, I give you that point," Ralph continued, "but the king is merely a young lad himself! I'd bet that Alliance puppeteer is swaying the king's resolve! Do you really want your son to end up as a puppet fighting for an unknown cause?"

"Ralph!" Xadek interjected, mannerly, yet sternly enough, "I serve the king to my fullest, and whether he be ten or one-hundred years of age, I shall obey! So do not insult him again!"

"Ugh, that king, he's such a pansy!" he tested. Xadek pretended not to hear him and led his son over to the Abbey of the town. Chappy followed close behind, giving his friend a thumb's up as they made their way to the Archbishop. He couldn't believe it; he'd finally become a Paladin.

* * *

-Ratchet, on the mid-eastern coast of the Kalimdor continent, before Northshire uprising.-

The day was still young as the hustle and bustle of Ratchet began to merely intensify. Such a town filled with markets and hagglers and the coast right beside all this made it the perfect place to observe things clearer. And the fact that they could all avoid the direct involvement of the war here was a godsend. Ratchet was a neutral town, owned by goblins. It was also a trade town where commerce seemed to rule. In Ratchet, anything was for sale. Bandits and pirates and all those rough kinds of people often settled around these parts, but because the Horde was only a walking distance away from town, most decided not to overstay their welcome. They preferred the broader Stranglethorn, where bounty hunters gathered, like at places such as Booty Bay. All in all, Ratchet was ideal for keeping tucked away and safe . . . and to place a bounty or two if there were certain pesky spies.

Strahad Forsan paced back and forth, awaiting his partner's arrival. Things were getting pretty tense lately, particularly with his own fellow students turning against their kin. It seemed there was an imbalance in the demonical forces, and it was his task to stabilize it. Strahad was well-known among mages, warlocks, and other sorcerers who sought to take control of the vast and manipulative dark arts. He never judged his followers, but now it appeared he had no choice. Good, evil, he hated the idea of joining the "good" side, or the "bad" for that matter. But so long as the Burning Legion remained the culprit, he would have to align with those against them. Even as he pondered the matter, his assistant was well on her way back to deliver the news.

She arrived, her red cape not nearly as bright as her shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were fiery, although collective at the same time. Her flaming hair gave her such a majestic look in the sun. She stood near the tent, one hand on her hip as she leaned tiredly.

"Ah, you finally return," Strahad began, forming an arching smile, "took you long enough."

"Ugh, be quiet. I've got much to explain."

Her voice was beautiful; biting as always. She donned a blue raiment exposing both cleavage and belly. Her long, skin-tight dress added to her fiery will. She looked about Ratchet's markets as if waiting for him to get within a whisper's reach. Where they had their hut set up was secluded enough. It stood high above a cliff, not too far from town, but high enough and far enough.

Strahad neared her further, his face all concealed save his lips and scruffy chin. The magus hat he wore seemed to be his trademark to those who knew him. Ironic to those who also knew his occupation, he wore pure white robes, covered by a small red jacket. He leaned forward to her, and she began to report.

"Seems Orgrimmar was the first to taste the demonic betrayal," she began, her voice a rough whisper. "The Burning Blade has salvaged the majority of the warlocks there and pitted them against the Orcs."

"And . . . ?"

"They demand all remaining warlocks be held in an area in the city where mana is greatly reduced, some kind of spiritual force-field created by shaman. Likewise, the Forsaken in the Undercity seem to be having the same inexplicable problem. This phenomenon was triggered seemingly one after the other. My guesses are that it is not directly linked from anything of the Nether, at least not yet."

"That means we can still make an impact."

"Precisely."

"Well, we should inform the leaders of the other major towns. And a perfect time, too. There is a temporary cease-fire."

"Your doing?"

"Yes," he nodded, "it seems that Percival took heed of my advice and alerted the National Council."

"An impressive leader."

"Menara, we need to make haste," he said, his tone more grim. "If my intuition is correct, something . . . otherworldly is at work here."

"What gives you that idea?" Menara questioned, her eyes searching for some way to read him. "Didn't you hear me before? It could just be some mortal's folly!"

"There is a powerful force heading into Azeroth, and I fear it is only growing the more we wait. It's just like my dreams, my vision. The beginning of an Apocalypse."


	3. Strange Sovereignty

-Chapter 3-

-Nightfall, the Orc capital city, Orgrimmar in Durotar-

In sheer seconds, Thrall's chambers became flooded with guards. The massive orcs stood dumbly at the figure before them, with the exception of the war chief himself, Thrall.

"Kill the infidel!" one of the orc guards shouted.

"He is too unholy, the spirits have overtaken him!" said a fearful one.

"We cannot just kill him! To slay our own is the ultimate sacrilege."

"But he tried to assault the War Chief!"

Thrall himself could not even overt his eyes upon the spectacle that lay right in front of him. And even as he stared in awe at his fellow orc warlock, he could sense the others stare dependently at him, waiting for a decision from their beloved leader. He took into account the warlock's features one last time; he was knelt down, for Thrall managed a heavy blow when he counter-attacked his attempt to assassinate him. He clutched a wound at his side that seemed to bleed some bright scolding liquid. An aura of malicious origin danced wildly around the orc turncoat, pale violet in color. Thrall knew exactly who he was, though, and that scared him the most. But he could not simply display his fear in front of his men, for it would lower morale greatly if they discovered their leader was terrified of some sinister demon. It seemed their dark past would never leave them.

The orcs, a zealous yet branded race of humanoid, embraced much honor despite the pact they once held with the demons. However, since Thrall's ascension as the war chief of the Horde, they managed control over the monsters instead of the other way around. Alas, had the monsters finally escaped their grasp? Had they come of power the orcs could not handle?

Thrall took one grim look at his advisor, Nazgrel. His discerning posture said it all. Closing his eyes in grief, Thrall took the battle axe he used to defend himself and held it in both his sweaty palms. The blade glinted in the bright torches of the open chamber, unnerving the guards and onlookers. They all gasped in horror as they waited for the words of Thrall. Some even had to walk out in utter grief. The crowd suddenly backed away when the possessed orc finally managed some words himself.

"You, war chief, will never have us yield to your will! Ha, wretched mortal! A new leader within the Nether has reawakened after what seemed like so many eternities! It is only a matter of time before the war of wars shall leave ashes of your brethren scattered about the lands!"

The orc muttered a quick chant in demonic and charged the orc leader with lightning speed. Guards too mystified by his haunting omen reacted too slowly. Thrall merely acted on instinct and attempted a downward cleave. There was a swift, sudden sound of flames fused with the noise of metal meeting flesh. A burst of purplish flares erupted to the chief's left side, the body of the orc warlock landing near the throne some feet away with a dull thud. The mighty leader's legs went weak, his bulky knees quivering and finally buckling. Even through his thick, plated armor, there was a visible open wound, infected by the demon. The guards hurried over to their stricken leader, but Nazgrel warded them away. He himself stepped over to Thrall with concern much like the others'. A slithering voice came from near the throne.

"Wither away and die . . . maggot! You thought you could escape . . . our clutches . . . ? No! Even now . . . many of our . . . servants lurk . . . pretending to abide our 'masters', the warlocks. Waiting . . . for the right moment. Ultimate destruction!"

"Quit your lies, heathen!" barked the war chief's advisor. A hand rose up to him, that of Thrall's. He stood up, axe still in hand. Compelled by duty, he would take the dirty task of cleansing his fellow brother. He steadily moved over to the orc that lay nearly dead. He wouldn't allow him to speak another word of this absurdity.

"Lok-Tar . . . Omagan, old friend. I will do the honor of purging you of this evil. And I will find the answer, mark my words. May the spirits find a place for you."

With those final words, the warlock could only stare with devilish mirth in his eyes, a devious cackling proceeding shortly after. With honor in his very arms, he swung the mighty blades of his axe upon his once-loyal warlock Stone Guard. The others bowed their heads in silent mourning only to raise them back at the sound of Thrall tumbling to the ground.

"Vol'jin!" cried out Nazgrel, signaling somewhere in the crowd.

The troll shaman leader of the Horde hurried over up to the weakened orc. None had suspected a minor blow would even hinder the chief. Eitrigg, a trusted orc representative who constantly remained in Thrall's presence as his bodyguard, removed everyone from the chambers save for two armed guards.

"What's his condition, Vol'jin?" came the old orc's weathered voice.

"Some'ting be amiss here," he responded, his accent echoing throughout the empty room as he surveyed the darkened gash.

"What do you mean?" Nazgrel asked worriedly. Even with his wolf-mask on, the others could sense true solicitude course through him.

"I cannot say fo'sure," said Vol'jin, "but da hue be that of shadow spell magic. A curse. What we trolls call the Voodoo."

"Well?" Nazgrel roared. "Can you dispel it or what?!"

"Pa'shonce, good warrior. I must research dis curse before I try ta purify it, or bad tings can happen." The troll shaman shook his head, prodding the infected area carefully with his finger and shifting his head to the glowing corpse of his assailant. At that point, Thrall was unconscious, very much out of touch with reality. His breathing was rapid. "I must consult wit da otha shaman in Thunder Bluff. Dis seems serious."

"What?! We've no time for that!" cried the outraged advisor. "Our leader's life hangs by a thread, and the Burning Blade assaults are only getting more intense! Even now, they hide amongst our own people!"

"Nazgrel," came the calm voice of Eitrigg, "listen to Vol'jin. He knows how to heal these kinds of ailments. If his venture would jeopardize the life of the chief, he wouldn't even suggest it."

The wise, yet sensible words made the advisor feel foolish. However, the impassive orc had a good point. With the war chief currently ill, the next in command would have to take charge. The obligation would have gone to the deceased Grom Hellscream. Before that, they never discussed who would command after him. He assumed the worst, that Nazgrel would have to lead. Tactically, he was a great strategist, but compassion he sometimes lacked. He often disputed with Thrall for his "weak will and overly merciful choices".

"To think, who would have guessed we would've been attacked from the inside," the gruff orc muttered darkly. "Damn! And we can't even blame the Alliance."

"No use in regretting," the gray-haired bodyguard said almost in a whisper, "you are now our commander. You must remain as resilient as Thrall always had."

"Well, I be going now," Vol'jin interrupted, his orange mohawk glistening in the brazier's dancing light. "There is much ta be done. Da warlocks in da Field of Mana-Drain must be kept an eye on. And da trip ta our Tauren ally's homeland will be rough. But I shall keep in touch."

With a couple of calm chants and glowing hand movements, Vol'jin became an ethereal wolf that took off with the majestic speed and grace of the ancestors. By the time he was gone, the guards had fetched over several healers, mainly troll priests and orc shaman, and they carefully lifted their leader into his private chambers. At that same time, they purified the body of the warlock, and the two armed guards at the doorway carried it away for the death ritual they now commonly held. Nazgrel sighed as they carried Thrall away for much-needed rest.

"What shall you have us do, Nazgrel?" Eitrigg questioned quizzically. "Your next decisions shall be crucial ones and must reflect the war chief's for the sake of our war-tired people. We must not forget who we are defending, Nazgrel. If you are to lead us to a brighter future, you'll do well to remember that."

Eitrigg had turned around and begun to step out of the morbidly quiet chambers when Nazgrel surprisingly broke that silence.

"Wait. I have already thought of a task for you, Eitrigg."

"Oh really?" the old orc shot back with interest, barely turning to meet him.

"Yes. Omagan's possessor spoke of how other warlocks were within their holds . . . somehow. We shouldn't completely trust the demon's words, but this could also be quite serious, even full-scale."

"I am aware that his words, though most atrocious, spoke of possible things. But what am I to do?" Even as he asked that final question, he correctly predicted how he would reply.

Drawing a heavy breath, the new temporary commander said, "Just as Thrall would have it . . . I want you to send peace messengers to all major cities and alert them of this menace before it gets out of hand . . . even Alliance towns."

Eitrigg knew how painful it must've been for the advisor to say such a thing. He smiled nevertheless.

"Yes, commander. I shall get right to it. Shall I arrange a truce meeting between the Horde and the Alliance National Council?"

"Eitrigg," Nazgrel said with clenched teeth, "you are a most despicable orc."

* * *

-Westfall, Saldean's Farm. Morning after the attack.-

Jedo awoke to the pleasant sounds of birds chirping around the farm area, his window wide open ushering a wonderful breeze into the room. For once, he got up filled with energy he never had. Today was the day he'd meet with Archbishop Benedictus and his two disciples. As always, Chappy, who had slept over just to travel to Stormwind with him, got up with the same energy he carried.

"After you become a full-fledged Paladin, do I have to call you 'Sir Jedo?'" asked the goblin with interest.

"Of course you don't, but everyone else will have to!"

"Haha, wow, I get a special privilege! Thanks, Jedo!"

"Quit acting like I'll be higher than you or something," said Jedo with a look of absurdity. "I'll just be fighting the enemy and protecting the people, like my father. I don't have to be treated like some fat, lazy king or anything."

The two laughed in unison, the sounds carrying off into the rest of the house. The door to their room creaked open, revealing a pretty blond girl with long locks and a long, flowing dress. Her eyes were large and blue, just like Jedo's uncle's. It was hard for Jedo to believe how such a couple as gruff and rural as his aunt and uncle could even conceive a lady such as she.

"Oh, Jedo, I just heard the news!" she said in excitement. "I'd have come sooner if I was aware of it. My little cousin is so grown up now, it makes me all emotional."

That was Annie, always treating Jedo like her little brother. They grew up together for the most part, and as far as he could remember, she had always been at his side. Smart, elegant, pure, and resourcefully tough, Annie was much more complex than most people he knew. A couple years back, she and her newly wed husband bought the land known as Saldean's Farm(named after an ancestor of Ralph's)from her father and ever since, kept it running better than ever. While his aunt Jackie went from taking care of the stables and livestock, she ended up supporting the family with her tailoring skills. Ralph obviously gave up the farm and became a miner. Annie and Jonathan made a rather excellent couple. And with only twenty years of age, Annie had it pretty well off.

"You better come over here and protect my farm!" Annie said playfully, her hands on her hips.

"You bet!"

"Um, excuse me for ruining this touching moment," came a soothing male voice. It was Annie's husband. "Jedo, your dad is waiting for you outside. I guess you're off!"

Annie ran to Jedo, who was dressed and set to go. She held him tightly in a sisterly embrace, nearly in tears.

"I know you'll do the right things, Jedo. You will be known as one of Azeroth's greatest knights ever! Just don't forget, every life deserves a chance. Not everyone you will encounter will be evil."

"And if they are," interrupted Jonathan, "then you hack their limbs off and show 'em who's boss!"

"Jonathan!" she scolded, releasing Jedo.

"Heh, don't worry Annie, I'll definitely remember that. But don't you all think you're getting ahead of yourselves?"

"I guess it's not a good time to bring up my name-brand electronics selling out in your name . . . ?"

That time the whole house's residents laughed together at the goblin's comment. They went downstairs and were greeted by Xadek clad in unusually heavier armor, not the showy kind. He was riding a most beautifully-adorned stead. That was the image Jedo wanted.

"Hey all," he said, taking his helmet off. His blond hair shimmered nearly as much as Annie's own. By his side was Jackie, a large smile on her weathered face. She looked as if she'd finished sobbing herself.

"Oh, Jedo! Go give yourself a name," she cheered. "Prove to them that the Saldean name must never be toiled with!"

As he'd expected, Ralph didn't show up. If Jackie couldn't get him to come, no one could. Jedo nodded briskly.

"Sure will. Tell uncle Ralph I said bye." Jackie simply nodded back.

"Don't worry, Jedo, in about a couple of weeks my ol' brother will go back to being himself again."

His dad's words were probably true indeed. Donning his best traveling clothes and the sword they thought Chappy made for him, he figured he was set.

"Remember what I told you. Stay close to the road and no sight-seeing, although you probably already know the route and shortcuts from when you snuck off." The others laughed at the ordeal. Xadek had a stern look about him, though, but it was more of an acknowledgment of his entering adulthood than scorn. The knight unsheathed his sword and swung it skyward, a salute made to important members of the Alliance.

"May the Light follow you wherever you go!"

Jedo, too, was beginning to feel his emotions well up inside, but he wouldn't let it show so soon. He grabbed his satchel and strapped it around his back. At last, he ran off with his goblin companion waving goodbye behind him. He'd finally begin his journey as a Paladin.

It was almost noon, and Jedo and Chappy were eating the specially prepared lunch made by Annie. Jedo could only think of his meeting with the Archbishop. It was perhaps the most exciting moment ever in his sixteen years. He still remembered it like it occurred just minutes ago and he convinced himself he always would.

"Ah, Jedo Saldean," was the first thing he said, "a pleasure to meet you at last."

"The pleasure is all mine!" he replied, bowing down.

"No need for any of that. I'm merely an archbishop. It is you I should be bowing down to, for you hold the makings for a Paladin, the divine defender of the Light and all who adhere to it."

"Yes, that's what I shall be!"

"Ho, ho, very determined, are we? That's good! Your father was the same way when he was a lad."

"I hope to be at least a fraction of what my father is now, Archbishop."

"Oh don't worry," he said with a jolly grin on his wrinkled face, "I believe you shall be an exquisite knight. The greatest attribute of a Paladin is his spirit. With that, a Paladin will have the courage to defeat any foe, no matter what stands in his way. And I strongly believe you possess that spirit, Jedo. It is the Light within us all. Learn to channel its power, and you too will be like your father."

"I sure will train as hard as I can!"

"Yes, well before we part, I want you to know this one well-known squire's skill." He put one hand out, palm facing away from him. Within seconds, he glowed a slight golden hue and chanted "Seal of Might," and a symbol appeared before his hand, one so ornate and beautiful, it left Jedo's face in awe.

"When in grave danger, call upon the Light's strength and summon the seal."

"How do you call upon the Light?"

"That is your first task, Jedo. You must search for the Light in you."

His reverie was interrupted by Chappy, who poked at his food-stuffed cheek.

"Hey, you've been quiet all this time. What's up?"

"Oh, just thinking about things. Chappy, do you think it is my destiny to become a Paladin?"

"Hmm, a very tough question to ask, Jedo." The goblin took a second to swallow his boar meat sandwich. "Yeah, I do think so."

"Why do you think so?"

"Cuz you always pursued it. You never gave up, even when everyone said it was too dangerous. It was like you were meant to be one even before birth. You stuck with your dreams, and thus, it is your destiny."

"Wow, that's pretty deep," he replied. Chappy smiled broadly.

"Ya think so?"

The pair continued after packing up, noticing a bustling Northshire up ahead back to its ordinary self. However, Jedo was startled when he saw a shadow slip out from the abbey's window in the back, a blind side to the villagers and trainees nearby.

"Hey, Chappy, did you see that?" he asked in a whisper.

"See what?"

"Someone just leapt out of that window over there, from the abbey."

Chappy gave him a look of confusion.

"You're sure?"

"Follow me."

Jedo led the way, the goblin given no choice but to tag along as usual. The tiny town, used to train warrior knights, priests, and others of that caliber, was busy as always; they hardly noticed Jedo and the rare sight of a goblin in Elwynn Forest. Patrol guards swarmed the market, perhaps on break and getting bite to eat. They circled around to the back of the giant tower to where the figure staggered away. He pointed into the underbrush of the forest behind Northshire.

"You expect me to go in there?" Chappy asked in shock.

"We'll both go," Jedo stated, taking out his sword. They both stared in awe at the mighty blade. It certainly didn't look like one you could find just anywhere. The truth of the sword would remain between him and his goblin friend, and them alone. What really happened was mystifying all in itself. A merchant draped in robes of dark colors set up a caravan trading post just off the coast of Jargoload Mine. No one ever set up shop there. As if waiting to meet him, the trader, his face shrouded by hood, called over the boy. He showed him the wide selection of rare and exotic wares for sale, all well over one hundred gold a piece. However, as if made especially for him, the merchant pulled out a short sword with its scabbard. The sword's hilt was blood red save for the intertwining golden strips that snaked around it in cryptic patterns. The scabbard was similarly designed. Eerily enough, he was selling it for five silver, the exact amount Jedo had always brought with him in his wallet. As if drawn in by some spell of fate, Jedo purchased it, not letting such an offer that good just go by. The merchant went on to talk a little bit about its history, saying how it was from a Paladin of another dimension outside of Azeroth or something like that.

Never again did he see this man. However, it was coincidences like those that encouraged him to become a Paladin, to pursue his dreams, to face danger wherever he found it. And what better time to test his skills than now? Fate was calling again.

The two traveled through moss-covered trees, tall grass and weeds, and the chirping of crickets. Strands of light seeped into various parts of the small wooded area, strengthening their courage.

"Look!" whispered Chappy excitedly, pointing to a grove where a hooded figure knelt down beside a tree stump. He was rummaging inside some leather bag, oblivious to his surroundings. "I can't believe it, a real thief right in front of me!"

"Told you, it's just as the archbishop said, the Light led us to him. Let's get back what he stole!"

Jedo approached the hooded thief, Chappy right behind him. He crossed his arms and tapped one foot as if to get his attention. The figure turned around, astonished that he'd been caught, and by a young man no less.

"Where do you think you're going with that?" Jedo asked. The hoodlum let out a strangled gasp and attempted to run off, but he was rather sluggish for one with such nerve. Jedo blocked his path again.

"Just give me the pack, and I'll let you go," he offered.

"No!" came a female voice. "I can't let you do that."

"Uh, you're a girl? Um . . . hold it, you stole from the abbey of Northshire, and I cannot let you escape with that parchment. Drop it and I'll spare you!"

The girl took out a blade of her own, one long and thin, like a giant needle. "Then I guess we'll just have to settle it the old fashion way, won't we?" There was fear in her voice, but not the kind one would utter from facing a formidable adversary. It was more like overpowering justice. Jedo was truly frightened. Could he have the courage to strike down a warrior woman?

"At least tell me why you did it," he tried to negotiate, "Maybe I can help you give up your thug-like ways."

"Thug-like . . . ways?" The girl seemed perplexed, which in turn bewildered Jedo. "I'm not a thug."

Noises sounded from the shrubbery around the grove, human noises. A voice came shortly after.

"Well, I'm one, so can I have what you got in your pretty hands?" It was a Defias thug, only spoken of in rumors in Westfall. The thieves of Darkshire.

"Yeah, whatever it is, we could pawn it and make good gold!" came another voice from another side of the grove.

"And so none of you babies go crying back to your people, we're gonna cut ya up real nice in the process!" said a thug with a deep-set voice.

"Careful," said a low, devious-sounding bandit, "we don't want to damage any of the items in that there bag."

"W-who are you people? Are you Defias thieves?" Jedo tried his best to maintain his composure, but to no avail. The girl just stood where she was, sword in hand as she took off her hood.

"I suggest you leave, quickly," she said, a bit more confidently.

"Oh, ho! You hear that, boys? She wants to play rough!" said the thief with the deep-set voice.

"Hmm, this should be amusing for the ten seconds it'll take to kill 'em," added the one with the low voice. "Boys, take care of them and procure the satchel. They just saved us the trouble of stealing it."

Jedo turned to the girl, her hair a strangely bluish hue, like some radiant angel's. Her eyes were dark and sharp, gentle, yet wild. She seemed somewhat of a contradiction. Her skillful fighter's stance mocked her true beauty, making her seem hardly like any villain. Why, then, had she stolen from the abbey? Still, they were surrounded and greatly outnumbered by the skilled thieves. If they even had a chance to survive, they needed to team up.

"Chappy, stay close to me!" The terrified goblin was shaking in fear even as he nodded approval. "Hey," Jedo directed at the girl as their backs met, "I sure hope you're good, or we're dead!"

"Don't worry yourself," was all she said. The first thief charged the barely five-and-a-half foot girl, two daggers aiming to slit her throat. However, as he was about to land a hit, she spun about to her left, knocking off his right-handed dagger. She anticipated his attack with the left-handed dagger, so with utter ease, she swung around, making a complete spin and hacked the man's left hand right off. He shouted in agony as his hand fell to the ground, blood spurting all around him.

"N-nice one," Jedo said, a bit unnerved by the sudden assault. She was, undoubtedly, a great fighter.

"Interesting, get rid of her pathetic bodyguard first," said the low-pitched thief.

Surely enough, a thief slowly neared Jedo, a smile placed across his thin, slender features. Behind him, the girl faced off with another lackey. Metal continued to clash on metal, leaving Jedo to face him alone.

"You were the ones who attacked Northshire the other day, weren't you?" his voice was set in an angry tone. "You could've killed my father! I shall have my revenge."

"Ha! Don't flatter yourself boy! Your chick friend got lucky. You'll both die soon enough."

The thief swung a short sword horizontally, and Jedo managed to guard it, however, the impact sent him flying back some feet away. With much more ground lost, Jedo would guard the next attack at his own peril; two more bandits guarded the edge of the forest's grove preventing him from backing up any more than a few yards. The next attack came abruptly, but Jedo ducked on time nearly getting beheaded, and came up with a swift counterstrike. The sword hit hard, not only knocking the brigand backward, but also tearing the flesh on his chest. Still, it was a minor injury. Before he could regain his balance, Jedo attempted the Seal of Might spell the archbishop told him of, hoping he could conjure up the power of the Light. Palm outstretched, he concentrated, chanted, but nothing. No spell, no symbol, no seal. He was left with an enraged thug.

"Why you rotten little . . ."

From behind, an arrow flew and struck the bandit where he stood. It pierced his heart instantly, crimson blood gushing out just as he crashed to the leafy floor.

"Laya!" shouted the blue-haired girl in relief, staring up at a tree.

"Princess, have these inbred mongrels hurt you?!" said the nimble huntress up on a tree branch.

"Princess?!" shouted Jedo, followed by the several thieves still left alive.

The huntress leapt down easily onto the ground, bow and arrow directed to the nearest brigand. His eyes displayed pure fear at the superhuman agility she bore.

"Shall I finish off these amateurs?" she said with a smile. She too was beautiful in a crude kind of way. She had blondish-whitish straight hair that reached down to her waist. She donned light leather-strapped armor most likely built more for speed than protection. She was a fair-skinned elf, he noticed.

"Damn, they have reinforcements!" growled the thief with the deep voice.

"Aw, playing too fair for you mongrels?" said Laya. "Maybe you should watch who you pick a fight with next time!"

The men retreated, dispersing into the woods like wild mice.

"Laya, I told you to stop calling me that here!"

"Are you really a princess?" Jedo asked with interest.

"Hey you," said the elf, "address her highness properly, at least by calling her 'princess'."

"Really, you don't have to. My name's Scarlet. This here is my bodyguard, Laya. Be polite, Laya."

At her princess' command, the elf bowed down graciously.

"Any friend of the princess' is my own."

Chappy looked at her suspiciously.

"Hey, aren't you one of them Blood Elves?"

"I beg your pardon?" the elf blurted out, sounding agitated once more.

"Ya, you Blood Elves are the ones who sided with the Horde for a short time. Are you both from the Horde?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not too familiar with this Horde you speak of, although I've heard plenty from your brethren."

The princess' words caused a jolt of shock within both the boy and the goblin. How could they not have heard of the Horde?

"Anyways, I won't question you further," said Jedo, shaking his head as if to clear his mind. "You both saved my skin. I owe you."

Jedo's shoulders slumped down in shame, knowing he would have to leave them be with the stolen goods.

"So you'll let us leave with no hassle? You won't tell the guards?"

" . . . No."

"Then let us make haste, princess," Laya said sternly. "Time is not an ally of ours. We're still missing Caska and Rita."

Scarlet turned to Laya, looking back at the disappointed boy for a brief second. She walked over to him, much to the elf's dismay.

"Princess Scarlet, you cannot trust these people too easily!" Still she walked onward. She met him face-to-face.

"You were willing to fight, and that makes you just as much a warrior as us," she began. "I will at least tell you what I came to 'steal', because for several reasons I trust you."

"Princess!"

"This is a shard of a mighty stone," she said pointing to the bag, "once said to possess immense energies not native to anywhere here on this world. Its origins are unknown to all. Your people found it and stored it away in the abbey recently, wanting to learn as much as they could from it. However, I need it, for it may hold the key to . . ."

"Princess, I'm sorry, but that's enough," interjected the elf guardian. She grabbed her slender arm and gave her a most grave look.

"He's just a boy, Laya."

"In this land, you learn quickly not to trust even a mouse. People here are just as selfish as in our lands."

"Your . . . lands?" Jedo repeated. "Are you foreigners?"

"Never mind," Laya said coldly, "pretend you never saw us, child, or there can be consequences."

"Laya!"

With those final words, the two made off with the satchel, and whatever dignity he held. Chappy gave him a look of pity.

"Don't worry, Jedo, they weren't evil, I can tell. At least those Defias thieves didn't get a hold of it."

"That's not the point, I-I couldn't even defend us. If it weren't for Scarlet and Laya, we would've died!"

"No, it was their fault. They stole the whatchamacallit."

Jedo looked as if he would burst into tears of anger and fear. However, Chappy wouldn't bear it.

"Hey, look . . . what does it matter? You're gonna be a Paladin. Soon, no one will stand in your way like them again! Remember what the archbishop said?"

"Never stand in my way again . . ."

As he repeated those words, his sword, still held in his very hands, began to glow red.

"Jedo!" cried the goblin, pointing to the weapon. Snapping out of his odd trance, Jedo saw nothing strange. "It was glowing . . . !"

"Um . . . are you seeing things? Anyways, let's get out of here before the Defias thugs get back."

"Amen to that!" said the goblin, scurrying out into the open field. They would move on to Stormwind. As far as they knew, their journey to the capital was uneventful.


	4. The Pious and the Wretched

-Chapter 4-

-Northshire, shortly after the theft-

"You knew, didn't you?" said a rueful voice softly. There came a brief pause, and the man before him finally responded with a subtle nod, his short red beard distinctive among the other knights around the town. "Then it may well be just as I suspected."

Although the two men were relatively alone, they kept their voices low. It seemed word traveled through the slightest of whispers nowadays. The red-haired man took off his silver helmet, unveiling the rest of his short hair. His face was filled with much concern, the wrinkles on his forehead showing proof.

"When it finally dawned on me what those bandits were up to, it was too late," said the weary commander with a sigh. "Using such horrible arcane magic . . . what do you think they could be plotting?" The steel-clad armored man in front of him just shook his head slowly, his unruly blond hair down to his shoulders.

"Alheid, do you suppose it has something to do with . . . ?"

"What? No! Don't be ridiculous."

Just then, a young man, likely a messenger, stepped up to the blond-haired man, discreetly whispered something, and ran off to his other duties. With mirth in his eyes and a smile that would otherwise seem offensive to anyone else, the blond man put a hand to his chin. It was obvious that fresh news reached them yet again, not sparing them any time to even discuss the previous incident. Alheid waited for the general to begin elaborating.

"More troubles, it seems. Interesting."

"Care to share?" Alheid asked with more concern.

"Not just yet. Tell me what went on in the capital."

"Nothing you haven't already experienced," he replied tiredly. "A bunch of conjured illusions in the form of thugs attacked the guards at the gates, just nearly the same moment Northshire was assaulted. A few days prior, reports were made based on some similarly dressed thugs causing mischief in the town square and near the Cathedral. These eerie chain of events began the day after they discovered that odd stone in the Aboraz Ruins."

"Yes, similar reports were written in various other scouting memos in nearby places as close as Menethil Harbor to as far as Southshore. None were severely injured, nor was anything vandalized. Everyone was just distracted, taken by surprise. It seemed as if these strange sorcerers were in search of something important."

Alheid nodded more energetically. "Yes, and they succeeded this time. They stole from us that same stone artifact that seemed to intrigue the Commandership a few weeks past. He told those who found it to keep it safely hidden in the abbey for reasons unknown."

"And why was such a thing stolen so easily?"

"Drugged. The guards inside were all knocked out by some unknown, potent sleeping herbs placed in their drinks during break. The apothecary team in Stormwind is trying its best deciphering what species of herbs they used, but still to no avail. The others outside were also temporarily distracted by some merchant, but whether that was a part of their plans is not too doubtful. We're not dealing with any amateurs here, Xadek."

"Or are we? Think of the plan."

"Y-yes, is it necessary to initiate the next part already?" Alheid asked nervously.

"Never a more crucial time," said the general. "Commander, on your mark. I have already planted the seeds; let it be you who makes sure they survive to grow."

With those words, the general turned back to his company of men and to his stead. Without looking back, he stated, "I'm going to do some more investigating on this new 'island' I've heard so much about recently. I have a hunch it'll answer some questions. You, meanwhile, are summoned to the capital in my place. Assume my role and tell the Council what I told you before."

General Xadek and his men left Northshire without wasting any more time, leaving Alheid with nothing but bitter regret and uneasiness. What Xadek had told him a year ago had shaped his entire life; he had to fulfill his duty. It was time to go to Stormwind.

* * *

Jedo and Chappy had just reached the gates of Stormwind and were already marveling at the wonders as they did the last time. Statues the size of large buildings stood in remembrance of heroes of past, marking their bravery. Two humans, an elf, and a dwarf loomed valiantly, weapons unsheathed as if they'd come to life at any moment. A gigantic, gray stone bridge gave passage to the spectacular view of town further down. In addition, it was the most wonderful time of the day, when the markets reanimated the city with the bustling citizens, both customers and traders. Many things were on sale and at reasonable prices, too. Had this been an ordinary visit, the two would have stocked up on many goods on sale. However, the archbishop was waiting on them, or at least on Jedo. The boy had gotten over his frustration back at the hands of the Defias Brotherhood and seemed more determined to carry out his strong desire to become a knight.

"Oh, look!" said Chappy, staring at a rather large assortment of supplies; wrenches, spanners, modulators. It was every engineer's dream sale. The goblin side of him won over the tiny little voice in his head. "Jedo, would you mind if I browsed a bit while you find that important priest guy? After all, he probably won't let a lowly goblin inside anyways, right?"

"Sure," Jedo answered with a laugh. "Couldn't resist a good deal, huh?"

"Nope! Hurry, don't be late on my account!"

Jedo heeded his words and took off into the winding streets of Stormwind, enjoying the rare sight as he went. He'd only been to the big city with his friend a handful of times, so it was somewhat of a treat to him. Construction was taking place just west of the Trade District, and several new buildings stood modestly northeast of town, near the Old Town. The park, a haven for children, stood silently to the west of the Cathedral Square, where his mentor awaited him.

"It's finally time," he reassured himself. He wouldn't like the idea of telling the archbishop he still hadn't summoned the Light within him, but there would be a time and place to experience the powers of the Light. For the moment, he mustered up as much courage as he could and walked up the stairs and into the Cathedral.

It was amazing inside, unlike any structure he had ever seen. Marble floors spread about, reflecting the stunning designs up on the ceiling. Even that extended up in many dome-like shapes and sizes, the stained glass windows adding to the majestic scene. Portraits of famous people stood on walls made of equal quality, and the enormous creme-colored pillars lined to the left and right of the main hall decorated the lavish edifice further. Knights stood next to the pillars, serving as protectors of peace and the beautiful building itself. A priest stood at the entrance, arms folded behind him. He smiled warmly and extended his hands in welcome.

"Ah, welcome to the Cathedral of Light, young man! We've awaited your coming." He walked over to the boy, who was caught off guard.

"Are you one of the Paladins the archbishop spoke of?" Jedo asked, unsure whether it was a stupid or sensible question. The Cathedral seemed like a place for priests and the such, not Paladins, protectors of the people, but it was worth asking.

"Heavens, no!" laughed the holy man. "I'm merely here to help out visitors. I am a priest, though. The Paladins are further inside with Archbishop Benedictus. He has eagerly looked forward to training the son of Xadek Saldean!"

They made their way deeper inside the halls of the spacious cathedral, Jedo greedily absorbing the wonders within. Everything was extraordinary to him. Several memorials of renowned knights and heroes stood with each passing hall, their adorned armor pieces embellishing the last rooms of the antechamber.

"Here we are," the old holy man spoke out, gesturing to an altar where the archbishop stood.

"Come in, Jedo," Benedictus said. Beside him was a dark-haired man clad in light-plated armor, his eyes serene and gentle despite his battle-scarred body. And to the other side of the archbishop stood a short-haired woman with the same armor. Not seen too often, she was a blonde, pretty woman with the strong will of a warrior burning within her soul. He assumed they were the others his father had spoken of. The archbishop himself wore a yellow hood with flowing robes to match. His gray beard also seemed to flow down his chin and face, giving him a rather wizened, venerable look that corresponded to his position. Jedo bowed before him, his sword placed blade-down on the ground. "Now, I told you enough of that, did I not? Oh, well, you'll catch on eventually."

Benedictus looked at his attendants at his sides and then at him.

"These are whom I entrust my life with, my humble protectors. This here lady is Katherine the Pure, my loyal sword. And this is my shield, Arthur the Faithful."

The two held their swords up to their chests in salutations.

"Are they the ones who are going to train me?" Jedo questioned with valiance in his words. The archbishop replied in kind.

"Why certainly, we all are, but for the moment they shall teach you the basics."

"But," said the young squire hesitantly, "I haven't had any luck yet finding the Light within me . . ."

"Do not fret, child," said Katherine, "most of us cannot channel such a pure source within us that easily. In some of us, the Light hides in the deepest, darkest crevices of our hearts; in our fear."

"Yes," added Arthur, "face your fears and you can most likely harbor the Light. However, your intentions when battling must be pure, never for selfish gain."

"They are all right, Jedo," the archbishop stated calmly. "Listen to their words carefully, for they learned directly from this old bag of bones. They are some of the greatest Paladins I've trained."

Suddenly, a plump man in fine robes ran toward the bearded holy man, his face filled with dread. It was the clergyman under him, Bishop Farthing.

"Archbishop Benedictus!" he shouted, despite the tranquil atmosphere around them. "Oh, it is horrible indeed!"

"Calm yourself, Bishop, what is it that troubles you?"

"It's the Stockades! Several unknown traitors managed to get through our guards and free the holds on some of the incarcerated felons. Our remaining guards are trying to hold off the uprising the best they can!"

"Wait," Katherine interjected, "our remaining guards?"

"Most of the guards near the Mage's Quarters have seemingly disappeared, and we cannot spare any of the guards in Stormwind Keep, for the young King needs his defenders."

"Say no more," said Benedictus, "we shall send our healers there posthaste. But still, you should send in a special force to enter in stealth and stem the villainous rebellion at the heart of it. A similar incident occurred a while back, and that was what quelled the uprising. My God, the number of innocents and hostages possibly taken. I cannot bear to think of such things! Katherine, Arthur, go in and take that task into your own hands. Save those poor people while sparing the lives those mislead villains if possible."

"But, Archbishop Benedictus!" protested the female Paladin. "We are your primary defenders! We cannot just leave you here while there are traitors among the populace!"

"Nonsense. I've seen my deal of battle before. I've perfected my arsenal of holy chants and combat spells. I may be old, but no one shall face this old coot without a toilsome challenge."

"She is right," Arthur also protested, "you need more protection. We are saying this only for your well-being."

"May I have a say in this?" asked Jedo, the crowd's attention turning to him. "How about I go along with one of the Paladins and the other remain here to protect the archbishop? I won't be a burden to you. And besides, the other guards are needed to keep the citizens safe. You have no one else at the moment to do this. Plus, my father taught me the basic swordsman's footwork."

For a minute there was a deadly silence in the large altar, but the archbishop broke in surprisingly.

"Jedo, you do understand the grievousness of this task do you not? You can die just as quickly as any other, die horribly by the hand of criminals most foul. Are you saying you shall face them head-to-head . . . ?" Jedo lowered his head, but then shook it with a passion that flowed within him.

"No, I shall do what you said and sneak inside. I want to find the culprits who started this as the guards lessen the threat. They could serve as a distraction as we quell the source of the revolt! Please, as long as I have one other with me, I will prove very useful to you."

"Y-you aren't actually considering this, are you Archbishop?" questioned Farthing.

The others looked at the archbishop, knowing whichever decision he'd pick would be one of great wisdom. No man in Stormwind was wiser than he.

"Fine," he said simply, "if you strongly desire to help." The others nodded, knowing that in the absurdity of the words, the archbishop had always made choices that were best for the kingdom. They accepted it without question. Benedictus then said, "I have never rejected someone who so willingly wanted to serve for his people, and I shall not now especially. Jedo, your resolve is what strengthens you. Let it lead you toward the Light." Jedo nodded, not bowing this time.

"I promise you I will not disappoint you!" he replied.

"I trust you won't. Now, Katherine, you shall remain with me. I will need a good offensive master. Arthur, use your protective Paladin skills to protect this brave knight and teach him what he's yet to know. I have great confidence in you and the boy. May the Light protect the both of you."

"And the same to you, Archbishop," Arthur said in kind. "Now, then, the archbishop says your something special, Jedo. Let us prove it to the others as well."

"Yes, Sir Arthur, lead the way," Jedo said, holding out his sword.

"First, we'll need to grab you some armor, then we'll hurry to the hidden entrance to the Stockades which lie in the park. Follow me."

With that, the two heroic men were gone, ready to venture into the pith of the crisis. The archbishop closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if concentrating. Bishop Farthing muttered something nervously and took off, possibly for more help.

"Archbishop," Katherine said softly, reluctant to break his moment of quietude, "what made you send the lad inside the horrible Stockades prisons? I do not mean to impose by questioning your wiseness, but I just don't get it."

"It seems everything his father said was true," he said in response, his withered eyes opening. "My God, it is all coming together. The prophecy, the boy, the coming of war."

"What? Is that really all true, archbishop? Have you foreseen something treacherous?" Catherine was swept away by his sudden revelation.

"No, not I. And not from someone I expected it from either. If the speaker of truth's vision is in fact credible, a tragedy will ensue. One that will mask a greater evil at work. But none can truly stop the wheels of fate once they have begun to spin. I must simply adhere to this path. And this child, he will begin this fine path."

* * *

Jedo and Arthur made their way to the secret Stockade entrance, careful not to seem too conspicuous. The majority of the city's people were either contained within their homes or quarantined into the Trade District for security purposes. But still, acting too perceptible was a foolish thing to do, especially when dealing with inside men. The two had stopped at the hidden spot, a seemingly ordinary drainage lid concealed by several of the park's leafy underbrush. The lid did not come off easily, as they both noticed. There was an insignia etched on the side, one that seemed foreign to him. Jedo was about to ask him how such a well-sealed metal plating would come off, but he spoke first.

"This has a special seal on it, one undetectable by the mere eye."

"Oh? Do you mean magic?" Arthur nodded, not so impressed, but in some way interested in the young boy's enthusiasm despite his shortcomings. He was indeed curious to see what the archbishop saw in the mysterious boy. But what was so mysterious about him appeared just as perplexing as first. He would just have to wait and see.

"Yes, now step back as I break it."

The boy obeyed and marveled as the Paladin held out a casual, yet sturdy fist. An imprint of some sort soon appeared before the man, reminding Jedo of Benedictus' demonstration. How was it possible, the boy wondered.

The lid began to sizzle, then subside as if a cooling sword taken straight from the forge. The insignia suddenly lit a bright red for just a brief second, then vanished. Soon after, the defender lifted the lid with Jedo's help. It was oddly cold to the touch.

"Are you ready, Jedo?" Arthur asked gravely, the look on his face a strange mixture of both promise and doubt.

"I couldn't be any more ready," he replied with a confident tone. In truth, he was intensely nervous, but he did a great job covering it. Besides, it wouldn't help anyone to let his fear show excessively.

"I'm glad, because it's going to get quite ugly from here on out."

Weapons unsheathed, the pair jumped down, entering a rather dim hallway, the walls composed of gray bricks covered in what looked like algae. It was murky enough to support that theory, and the shadows made it hard to see too far ahead. Jedo heard the many wails of death, the sounds of steel clattering loudly. It reminded him of the attack on Northshire, although this was actually for real; people were dying. There were no more illusions this time, as his uncle proclaimed.

The hall they were in ended at a dead end, a wall blocking the path behind them. Ideally, this was a perfect entrance, for all they would need to concentrate on would be straight ahead. Arthur got closer to the boy, who wouldn't dare keep his eyes off the encroaching darkness that was their destination.

"Here, wear this," he said, taking off his helmet as quietly as he could. Long brown hair fell down to his forehead and shoulders as the helmet fitted onto the boy's own head. Jedo looked confusedly at the knight. "This will protect you further," he said. "Chances are you will need this more than I."

Jedo only wore the armor from the armory that would actually fit his rather scrawny physique. For someone his age, his build wasn't so bad, but compared to a knight, he lacked enough muscle. Arthur's scarred face became one of sternness and valor. He spoke slowly again.

"Listen closely. These thugs are going to seem quite intimidating at first, but they're going to be just as nervous as you will when you engage them in combat. After all, they'd just been freed from their cells, starting a riot. Chances are they are just going to charge and strike as quickly and lethally as possible. That, my young apprentice, is their weak spot. Always remember, for every strength, there is a weakness."

The knight led the way, walking with his knees bent slightly to avoid too much unnecessary noise. Jedo did the same. The hall stretched to both the left and right sides. As Arthur peered to the left, he signaled Jedo to guard the right. The boy noticed the many cells, the darkness within them giving way to nothing. Regardless, the doors to the cells were wide open.

"This way," said the knight.

They veered to the left hall, a torch illuminating the corner where it turned. One man came out of the shadows, a convict no doubt from his shaggy clothes. He snarled in their direction, revealing a glinting blade in his hand. He was badly injured, they noticed, as he limped on a bleeding leg. His arm, too, was covered in blood, making that wound difficult to see.

"Where did you get that scimitar?" Arthur questioned. Even as he did, Jedo readied himself in a defensive stance. The convict smiled in spite of his situation, obviously realizing Jedo's fear.

"What's it to you, pretty boy!" he growled. "You and your ass-kissing knights and your shiny, pretty armor. Bah! All you care about is glamour. I'll show you how you really fight!" The prisoner's eyes met Jedo's directly, and like they both predicted, he charged the young boy. Arthur had a defensive spell readied in his left hand, but Jedo came up with a surprise attack, ducking down and sweeping the man off his feet and onto the ground; using his weakness to his advantage. The convict gave a strangled yelp at the pain that surged up his already-damaged leg. He shouted further in agony as the sword in his hands sliced open the other wound on his biceps. Blood poured onto the sickly moist stone floor, slick and sanguine red.

"Damn you filthy curs!" he cried, spittle dribbling out as he did so. Even as Jedo held his weapon at the fallen man, he could not come to slay him. He couldn't do it, even though the man would gladly cut him open. Instead, he held the blade out near his neck, close enough to cause him to pause. This time, Arthur was impressed.

"C'mon! Finish it!" yelled the convict with a humorless smile. "What is it, are you manly enough to cheap-shot me, but not brave enough to bring the sword down? What kind of a knight are you?!" Jedo remained still.

"That's it, Jedo, don't give in to his taunts," Arthur said with a smile. He quickly took the chance to investigate a nearby prison cell. The lock appeared melted off, some sort of sorcery the cause. He noticed it was the same for the rest. Was it the same one who used magic spells to attack the capital and Northshire? He couldn't be so sure. He went back to the man, who's weapon shook in as he contemplated an attack. The knight's gloved hand spread out, and a swift white blast zapped it from his feeble hands, startling him. Arthur lifted him by the collar with one single fist; he was big, both in height and muscle bulk, easily surpassing the man's.

"Tell me, where are the majority of others, and who let you pitiful creatures out of your cells?"

"You think I'd answer to the likes of you?!" he screamed beneath his pain. "I could give two rats' asses about who let me out, but I wouldn't dream of telling y-."

"Tell me!" The grip tightened.

The interrogation was soon interrupted when the shouts of fellow inmates filled the echoing hall. Arthur tossed him hard into the holding cell and used a bright red spell that fused two parts of the cell door to the steel bars. He then gave him a renewal spell to prevent him from dying from his lacerations.

"When they get here, they'll overwhelm you," said the lightly healed prisoner, ungrateful for being spared. "You'll both be chopped up in no time, no matter what dirty tricks you both hold!"

Two, three, four men soon turned into a mob of ten to twelve. Both the brave knights looked at each other for a second, readying their stances.

"I sure hope you can fight them off too, Jedo," he said swiftly.

"'For every strength there's a weakness,' right?" he replied, hoping to inspirit them both. It was going to be one hell of a battle.

* * *

The archbishop and Katherine had drifted away from the Cathedral after heavy discussion. Benedictus had stubbornly refused to ignore the screams just outside the very walls of the magnificent building, and eventually, Katherine had given in. She became convinced that no one could simply ignore the horrific shouts and live on with a clean conscious. And as a result, they ended up traveling from the Dwarven District to the Old Town, trying desperately to defend against those that managed to bypass the guards at the Stockades. They ran rampant, slaying any and all who crossed their path. Luckily, the benevolent King Anduin Wrynn, forbidden by the council to be allowed into combat, sent nearly all of his royal guards to prevent any from entering the Trade District, where the majority of people currently remained.

"Archbishop, we cannot subdue them all!" shouted Katherine amidst the nearby battles of the guards.

"I will not bear to see anyone die before my eyes and not even think of helping! Remember who we live for!" Katherine nodded in approval.

"Yes, I understand, but there are too many! We, along with the citizens will perish!"

Just then, two dagger-wielding men took her on both her sides. They charged almost immediately, sparing her no time. However, she needed barely any time to make her move. She unsheathed her giant two-handed sword and swung in a circle of shimmering brilliance. To the dismay of both Benedictus and Katherine, the two men were obliterated into a bloody mass on the ground. The archbishop merely shook his head sadly.

"Why must it end this way?" he questioned softly to himself.

"Archbishop, there was nothing we could do," she rationalized, "we need to go!"

"I know."

The pair had gathered the survivors and the injured into the Cathedral where some healers still stayed behind, soon falling back to its safety when they did what they could. Disappointment spread across the old man's face as they entered the haven. Katherine placed a warm hand on his weak shoulder.

"We did our best."

"Not good enough," came a voice from behind. They both turned to face a woman with a thin scar running down her right eye. She had long, bright red hair tied at the bottom. She had a wicked smile on her rather rugged features as she glared down on the two like a snake on its prey.

"Melissa . . . !" gasped Katherine, clasping out her longsword as quickly as she could when she recognized the face.

"Surprised?" she replied with dark mirth in her voice. "You shouldn't be. You knew ever since that day you imprisoned me that this day would come, that I'd rise again to claim my revenge."

"Melissa! So it was you who conspired this disaster . . . and in the worst of times!"

"Hmph! I wish," she retorted. "But I wasn't solely responsible. You see, I rallied the mobs and commanded. You fools really shouldn't group the military strategist with a bunch of blood-thirsty hooligans in any prison. Oops! Sorry, ex-military strategist." Her tone of voice was caustic to the core, overcome by bitterness.

"Melissa," Benedictus' voice sounded over her vicious own, sounding almost like a plea, "call this off! No one else should die for what happened to you. Besides, it wasn't Katherine, or I for that matter, truly responsible for you imprisonment."

"Rubbish!" she spat. "It was you, the very archbishop of the 'Alliance' that recommended this! How dare you! Just so this new young hotshot 'His Commandership Trevor Frohm' could take over my place! Well, let's see, where is he now?"

"No!" he insisted. "That is not completely true. I wanted you to live and be placed in prison, not be sentenced to death like the council agreed to do. I did recommend only so you could live!"

"They . . . wanted me EXECUTED?"

"Think this through, Melissa," came Katherine's reasoning. But reasoning was far from the woman's mind at that point.

"Think? Oh, I had plenty of time to think in my cell! And I found that everyone here is a puppet of the damn council, that's what! And I'll tell you what else, the one who released me and the others from our cells said they were planning something. Something BIG! All you high and mighty bastards are going to fall in hell! You're going to regret getting rid of me and forcing me to live in some cold, dank cage! Our saviors will someday rule you, and knowing that is satisfaction enough. I just want an extra bonus by taking your heads!"

"Melissa, this is not like you at all . . ." The venerable man's words were blurted out as her voice became louder, more malevolent.

"All will see my anger! I won't let a single noble escape my wrath!" Immediately after, her body began to glow an ominous dark color, like that of a sorcerer's flames.

"Archbishop, that's . . ."

"Yes, I know."

Katherine lifted her blade, spinning it around to catch momentum and swung in her direction, the sword glowing a pale white. The woman seemed to vanish with the sword's swing, only to reappear behind her. Abruptly, the archbishop shielded his guardian knight with his Power Word, rendering Melissa's counterstrike useless.

"Why, you little . . ."

Just as her hands charged with shadowy magic, the archbishop shielded himself in conjunction with Katherine taking another more swift shot. However, the dark knight rose high into the air, dodging the attack at her blind spot altogether. Anticipating the joint attack, she gave the woman a shadowy kick, sending both her and her longsword flying into a wall and onto the ground. Benedictus had no time to heal his fallen ally; Melissa was already on him like a viper.

"You're mine," she cried out, lashing at his barrier with her cutlass, "and after you, I'll finish your precious bodyguard!"

Even as he struggled to mentally chant, the archbishop manage to retort back.

"You vastly underestimate me, my dear."

The archbishop of Stormwind sent a most blinding blaze of holy fire point-blank at her, the blast sending her body flying several feet back. A white trail of fire followed her stricken figure in her wake as she crashed to the ground. She lifted herself up with shifty legs, a smile peering on her face. The holy man was not intimidated.

"Is that all you can do?" he taunted, not moving an inch from where he stood, even before her appearance.

"Don't flatter yourself!"

Melissa dashed for the limp body of Katherine, Benedictus foreseeing such a desperate move from the start of battle. He shielded her, the holy strength of the circular white light zapping her tainted figure back as she neared.

"Your pitiful antics can't save you," he said with utter reverence for his ability that was quite fit for Archbishop. She, however, seemed unhindered.

"You just let your guard down, old fool!"

Some dark whispering came speedily from her lips, the archbishop realizing a second too late that she was speaking in demonic tongue; she was placing a curse on him!

As quickly as he possibly could, he smote her with a surge of holy energy in the highest concentration his skill could allow, the fanatical woman smiling broadly as she began to wither away in holy lightning. Although she was no more, the archbishop felt the strength of the dark spell she cast fall upon him. He tried hard to cleanse it, but it remained recalcitrant, biting at his pure soul. Falling to his knees in overwhelming agony, he used the last spell he could at that time to heal the wounded bodyguard of his. Then, darkness took his vision away, leaving only a place of fear, pain, and shadow.


	5. Sinister Embolus

-Chapter 5-

The great plateau of Thunder Bluff was a blessing of a sight to the troll shaman as Vol'jin paused to take a breath. At last, his journey was over; he could call for the great shamans and help the warchief before the curse consumed his very being.

A set path led up to the front of this mighty plateau, a great lift greeting his weary canine legs. With a puff of shimmering spiritual energy, he was troll again, his stature better than the usual slouching males of his tribe. He wasn't considered spiritual leader of the Darkspear Trolls for nothing. Vol'jin was the one to quell the racial hatred of his people, and even more promising was his banishing of those few trolls that embraced demonic worship. He was the Thrall of his people.

He reached the top of the plateau in seconds, the lift being crafted by the finest the Tauren had to offer. At the top, he surveyed the whole of the city, the peak of the giant tableland. It elevated slightly in a circular pattern, the current elevation being the smallest. From the very few visits he made to the Tauren homeland, Vol'jin remembered that the shaman resided in one of three different rises that connected to the main plateau via bridge, the Spirit Rise. Now, whether it was the one to the east or west was the question.

At the very front of the great city stood several guards, who looked unusually stern for the peace-loving Tauren.

"How you doin', good Tauren?" he greeted. They studied him carefully, then let down their momentary hostility, bowing down slightly.

"Peace, brother troll Vol'jin," said the male leader of the guard. "One of our shaman foresaw your coming. It seems something big lies on the horizon for you and us all."

"Who you be?" Vol'jin asked, not quite recognizing him at all from the last time.

"Oh, pardon my rude behavior. I am new to the Defenders Unit deployed by Cairne, the Chieftain, himself. My name is Thrag, and it is my duty to oversee those who come by. You escaped my eye in your ghost wolf form. But I won't let it happen again, I can reassure you." The Tauren guard gave the troll a worried look. "I must assume something is wrong for you to come out here with little warning. With the spiritual imbalance and all, I cannot begin to imagine what has gone wrong in Orgrimmar."

"Let Vol'jin see da shaman, Beram Skychaser," he replied with the equal coolness he always displays. "It concerns da Warchief's current condition."

"Oh," came a surprised gasp from the guard, the other Tauren defenders following suit. Feeling quite awkward, he cleared his voice. "Why certainly! I hope the Warchief is okay, but I shall not delay you with my questioning. Go forth to the northeast, the Spirit Rise, friend."

Vol'jin heeded the Tauren's words and took off once again in his wolf form. There wasn't the usual Tauren activity at the moment; occasionally, there would be several of them smoking pipes and trading goods despite being only evening. Many times they gathered and spoke of many adventures by the bonfire, retelling legends and epic tales of beings of great worth. Today, though, was a strangely quiet day.

He crossed the bridge that led to the small rise northeast from the entrance. Three huts stood, as enigmatic as the Spirits of Azeroth themselves. The largest one seemed the most noticeable, a gigantic Kodo skin lying right on top. Many other things considered spiritual to the religious creatures adorned the rise; torches burned brightly, sending a red-like hue into the sky above, colorful feathers of rare birds hung around like charms given directly from the earth itself. There was often celebration among this rise as well.

The troll shaman was whole again as he entered the sanctified area. He entered the open doorway only to see no one inside.

"Is there anybody here?" he asked looking around with frustration that did not show. However, soon enough a figure appeared from the shadows. It was Beram, the shaman who he sought. Yet something was amiss.

"You came to see Beram?" said the older Tauren. His voice seemed different, yet oddly familiar. The voice wasn't his.

"What have you done with Beram?" Vol'jin asked in an irate tone.

"I apologize," said the voice within the shaman, "he'll be right with you."

After a couple of seconds, the tranced Tauren shook his head tiredly and smiled wearily.

"Oh, I have a visitor, do I?"

"Beram, you were contacting spirits?"

"Yes, my friend," he said, his voice just as hearty, except Vol'jin could hear the tinge of concern in his elderly voice. "There shall be a time for repose and a time for crisis. And now more than ever is there a crisis. Tell me, what is it that is wrong?"

"It be da Warchief, Thrall. He be placed unda a curse, one of formidable powers. But not simply from a lowly being. It be from a very powerful demon."

"Could this be a part of . . ."

"Part of what?"

The tauren shaman closed his eyes, lost in thought. He slowly sat where he stood, appearing oblivious to his surroundings. At last he responded.

"The Earthmother grows anxious," he began. "I have spoken lately with an oracular soul who claims to know much in the coming of a most terrible war. The entity was not malicious, I knew it from the aura it gave me. I accepted it into my very conscious, careful not to let my guard down. It gave me visions, ones of wonderment, but others of great sadness and horror. I saw humans. I saw orcs. I saw the fallen children. I even saw our brethren, along with your own. Death, magic, arcane . . . demons. I saw it, and then I cried inexplicably and unrelentingly. Something awful is just around the bend, my friend."

"Hmm, not good. What happened here?" The Tauren's expression turned even more solemn.

"It began from the dream Pala had."

"Who be Pala?"

"She is a fellow Tauren shaman who seemed to have grandiose visions on the prophetic scale. While many thought her attempts were quite pretentious, our people have learned the hard way that they were just as she had said. Pala has since disappeared. My guesses are that she has taken her prophecies to heart and has embarked to warn the opposition on the dangers ahead, which in my eyes was foolish; she's yet to return to us. However, how can I be one to speak? The other shaman have entered a spiritual possession that cannot be exorcized. I fear it has a correlation to the warlocks of Orgrimmar. Without spiritual guidance, Thunder Bluff cannot assist Orgrimmar with their problem."

"And da druids?"

"Ah, they too have gone off. They claimed trouble was brewing and, before the mayhem that ensued, journeyed to Moonglade with their brethren. No word from them since."

"This be bad. Thrall may not make it much longer at dis rate. Is there some'ting you can do?"

"I doubt it, my friend. But if you insist that I go, I will. I shall try my best to help the leader of the Horde. Although, I should mention it was Pala who spoke of terrible afflictions and how to cure them. Again, many dismissed such horrors, worrying instead about the temporary stalemate between us and the Alliance. I regret our poor judgement."

"Sorry to interrupt," came a voice from the hut's entrance. It was Thrag, who wore a look of desperation. "Someone is here to see not only Cairne, but also the 'spiritual leader of our capital', as she stated. She demands an audience."

"Who is it?" asked the Tauren shaman.

"A human. Goes by the name Menara Voidrender."

* * *

With Jedo on the offense and Arthur protecting and healing, the mob was slowly diminishing. Of the dozens of prisoners, Arthur could only save a handful; the rest were killed by the courageous boy. The valiant knight took a look at the young man, who seemed disillusioned by the deaths.

"Do not fret," he said softly, "for you fought with great intentions. We need to progress and take care of the mastermind, before innocents get killed. Do not forget, these are all prisoners who have done harm to our homes."

"I guess you're right," Jedo said, understanding what the man was trying to do.

They both continued through the maze-like labyrinth-of-a-prison, this time more quietly. It sounded as if the fighting had gotten farther away, which was good. If they avoided further skirmishes, they'd find their culprit quicker. They found themselves in a corridor that expanded a bit more than the stuffy narrow halls. However, there were a medley of people patrolling. When the pair saw who they were, they were aghast.

"What are Stormwind soldiers doing among felons?!" said Arthur, who was trying his best to figure this out. They handed out armor and weapons to the opportunistic convicts, their faces obscured save for the glimmer of eyes.

Jedo shut his own eyes briefly, lost in his mind.

"I don't know, but something about them is very wrong."

"You sense it, too?" Arthur was again amazed at how the boy was capable of sensing the evil presence dwelling within them, a difficult thing to do for the inexperienced. They weren't just ordinary guards.

As if picking up their chattering, two of the guards came forward, revealing both swords and shields. The remaining force scrambled deeper into the prison's winding halls, perhaps off to combat the guards at the entrance. Meanwhile, Arthur did what he figured was most righteous.

"Jedo, move aside!" Arthur shouted, who chanted as quickly as he could. Not before long, a blast of blinding light emitted from the man's fist. Both dark soldiers fell to their knees in moments, rubbing unendingly at their eyes. They got up shortly after and continued their pursuit nonetheless, red eyes gleaming through their silver helms.

"No, I can't purify them!" cried Arthur, who unsheathed his own sword and shield. "If I cannot expel them of their evil, battle will be inevitable. Looks like we have no other choice. Jedo, stand back for now."

Jedo did as he recommended, watching as the two wayward knights bombarded Arthur with strike after strike. Even outnumbered, he was still overpowering them, for they were very uncoordinated; it seemed they lacked the skills regular knights possessed. He placed a defensive shield spell over himself and managed to get two direct uppercut slashes on one of them. At that point, Jedo had to wonder, had they also been illusions?

One of the knights charged their blade with dark energy and sent a powerful blast of fire that nearly swept away Arthur's magic shield. The other one took the holy knight's moment of shock into consideration and struck him in the chest, slicing through armor and eventually through skin and muscle.

"Arthur!" shouted Jedo, rushing in with sword in hand. He couldn't just do nothing.

"Stand back, Jedo," Arthur managed to say through his injury, "they possess spells from the Twisting Nethers. They'll kill you!"

"But they'll kill you if I don't . . ."

At that moment, Jedo's sword began to resonate in an unusual way, turning a silvery color from the hilt to the tip of the blade. He held it outward, feeling some part inside of him release. Arthur glowed bright white for a few seconds, and then there was the darkness of the complex again.

Jedo focused, trying to see after the blinding light. Sizzling armor lay on the ground, beside a stunned Arthur, whose wound became healed completely aside from some scarry tissue. Silence filled the chamber.

"J-Jedo?"

The boy looked up at the man's face, filled with shock and fright. How could he have used such a spell? No. It was the sword, Jedo knew. But before it was cast, he felt a surging force well up inside, of astonishment and concern. Was it the Light . . . ?

"I . . . I don't know how I did that," he replied, lost in a stupor of his own. He felt slightly worn out after that ordeal.

"There are still mysteries of the Light we shall never know," Arthur said passionately. "Let's not dwell on this matter. What we do know is that the Light is on our side. So on that note, we must move on. Jedo, you were meant to be here, it seems. Let us both finish this."

The two traveled onward, following the same path the turncoats did. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the horror before them. On a desk lay bloody parts of what was once a human, one knight lurched closely to it . . . shredding the sinewy substances. Candles were lit around the desk, and around him stood disoriented soldiers and prisoners, all seemingly in a trance that separated them from this world.

"Such a . . . dark conspiracy," Arthur managed to blurt out.

The lone conscious knight near the desk look up at them with inhuman eyes, muttering words in another language of some sort. He lifted the blade of which he used to commence the ritual and started for them. An unnatural wind swept up within the dungeon, blowing out candles and seething within the corrupted.

"This must come to an end," Arthur stated to Jedo. The young warrior knew what was next. The two braced themselves for the fight that would ensue before them. Two of the possessed broke from their dormant state and once again turned on their fellow people. It wasn't until Jedo noticed the grimoire chained to the knights belt that it dawned on him.

"Arthur," Jedo spoke out quickly, "that knight, he carries a tome. I think he's using black magic to control them in some way. My father mentioned necromancers carrying around with them something like that."

Just as it was said, Arthur knew what had to be done.

"Jedo, take him on! I'll hold off the others. You seem to be best at closed-quarters combat. Hurry!"

Jedo was unsure of the idea, yet, he did hurry forward. His target began to chant something malignant until Jedo made a blow across at his waist, where the armor did not completely cover. The knight turned, and although he wore a helm, Jedo could tell he was smiling, relishing the enormous gash at his side. Unnatural blood spilled down his leg, which seemed to meld into his armor and sink beneath immediately after. He wasn't human at all.

"Little boy, what is your death wish?" he stated in a most devious tone.

"You began this riot, didn't you?! You'll pay for this!"

"Hmm, maybe, who knows?" he replied with the same malicious sarcasm. "Why don't you ask the Light, oh mighty Paladin? Or will you just smite me with your divine power of nonsense . . . ?"

At that remark, Jedo punished him with yet another quick slash at the joint of the creature's arm. Again, blood spilled, then vanished.

"Pathetic mortal, my true form prevents this feeble body from simply crumpling at your sword's bites! Lose all hope, maggot! Soon you shall see the utmost potential of the underworld."

As the demonic entity spoke, Jedo felt his anger rise, the deep fear set within his limbs makeing him quiver. The laughter of the monster would have offered more, but by then, his sword was dancing wildly at the creature, shredding off armor and even severing its arm.

"Ugh, such power," said the monster, although not much in shock. "You possess a strong weapon . . . and some powerful magic. BUT, is your will strong enough?"

The monster used his free hand to toss a discolored dagger at him, barely parried by the swift boy. As it fell to the ground, a thin rift opened below where the point of the weapon met stone, almost invisible to naked eye.

"This should be quite interesting, but my master wants the task done. We shall continue our struggle to gain our access, but on another battlefield. Until then, we shall hopefully meet again, boy of foolish will. Ha, ha, ha!"

A purplish cloud flew from the body and into the small rift, the body it seemingly possessed slumping to the ground like a bag of metal. The others under the trance followed suit. When Arthur noticed this, he turned to Jedo intantly.

"Jedo!" Arthur yelled out, and upon meeting him, noticed the broken body on the ground. The valiant man was out of breath, and injured in several places, but was more concerned over the boy. "What happened, did you slay the demon?"

Jedo gave no answer.

"I think there was more to this than we originally thought," he said to the boy. "But you, you fought like a true warrior. The archbishop was right in trusting you."

Jedo nodded, still unnerved by the horrible creature and his macabre abilities. If that was his power within an unwilling host, he couldn't possibly begin to fathom what evils would be unleashed if he succeeded in his "master's" task.

"Are you alright?" said the knight. "What did that monster do to you?!"

"Don't worry, I'm fine."

Jedo took a deep, drawn-out breath and looked at his sword. Was his will strong enough . . . ? What that demon had said about him terrified him. Such power, as he witnessed, would have to be controlled. However, what Arthur told him before, about the Light, seemed to quell those fears, at least for the moment.

"You fought well . . . Jedo," came a voice from one of the jail cells. "You're just as gallant as in my visions."

Jedo turned around quickly and saw the one who spoke out to him; a prisoner, a female Tauren. She didn't bother with the cell door, although hers was unlocked. Rather, she sat placidly, her eyes closed gently.

"Who are you?" he inquired curiously.

"She is a captive," Arthur replied in her stead. "You shouldn't talk with her, Jedo. She will just spit out meaningless trumpery, knowing her kind."

"What, judging me based on my race already?" she replied with the grace of an elder, although he could tell she wasn't all that old.

"Not quite, merely by the fact that you are imprisoned," retorted Arthur condescendingly.

"Well, if you only knew why I was here. My name is Pala, Sir Jedo. And I have seen you perpetually in my visions; you and a band of others, fighting horrible enemies who threaten to take our land. Battling otherworlders."

"Otherworlders?"

"Do not listen, Jedo!" Arthur insisted again.

Arthur's words were blotted out when the Tauren stood up inside her tiny cell.

"You mean to tell me all that you've seen thus far was nothing?" she stated sadly, with a tint of fear. "My, you humans should really get in touch with your inner instincts. Everything is discombobulated. Your lands are in disarray. The spirits cry out for mercy. Even your elven friends do not realize this save for their druidic counterparts, who've already gone to work. Listen to me, young warrior. I tried to explain to the council of your kind that a great evil imposes upon us, but instead I was placed here until my sentence was decided. I understand that I am of the Horde, but this shall affect us all. If we do not act in unison, these demons will overtake our sacred land!"

"Nonsense!" Arthur shouted. "The only demon left here is you! You must have cast a demonic curse on my knights! And if I find out it's true . . ."

"Foolish human. If not for my spiritual powers, demons would have overran your precious town hours ago! It was I that inhibited them from manifesting into much more horrid forms. Do you know what lies beneath your overly-used prison that has attracted them?"

Arthur was silent for a moment, for he sensed it too. Beneath the prison . . .

"I don't understand," Jedo said, frightened by her words.

"Child, I'll tell you what," Pala said. "Go back to your people and help them. As long as you live and make it long enough to reach the floating island near Stranglethorn, nothing more matters. Please, just remember those words."

Jedo felt a faint connection toward the spiritual creature. One not so obvious. Feeling as though he had to, Jedo shook his head.

"Once we finish all this, I will speak to Archbishop Benedictus and the King. I'll try my best to gather an audience and get you out of here."

"Jedo," whispered a rather shaken Arthur, "are you sure about this?"

"Never more. Just trust me."

"Jedo!" shouted Pala with sudden shock, her eyes shut tight. "Above, the Cathedral!"

"What about the Cathedral?" Arthur interjected.

"There was an attack recently! A possessed one managed to surface. Something has gone wrong at the Cathedral."

"We must hurry," Jedo told Arthur with renewed panic.

"And one more thing," Pala added. "There is much I have to tell you, Jedo. Whether you free me or not, I want a chance to speak with you. So, please, whatever you do, promise me you'll survive!" Jedo nodded firmly and hurried for the Cathedral, more afraid of what awaited up above.

* * *

Katherine had already begun healing the archbishop when the other healers that had finally gotten around to patching up the injured had returned. Together, they tried their best to ease the wound on the venerable holy man, but it seemed there was no form of recuperation. It was some form of evil, one Benedictus' soul fought vigorously, but to no avail. The mighty curse would tear at his mind and heart until all signs of life ceased.

The horrible battle at the Stockades seemed to have been squelched at that point in time, which was a great relief for all of Stormwind. Nonetheless, her only concern was to take care of Archbishop Benedictus whose life hung by mere threads.

As she continued casting spells of rejuvenation to fight the malediction, a priest came scurrying from the entrance hall down to where she stood. She let out a sigh as he neared her, meaning bad news.

"Lady Katherine the Pure," the priestly woman began, nodding her head in reverence. "Several people have come to the Cathedral of Light to speak with the archbishop, but it seems under his current state, Bishop Farthing would have to remain in his place."

"Right," Katherine reassured, "but why, then, are you here speaking with me?" The lady frowned at her own presence, fearing she was being a bother. Nevertheless, it made her speak faster.

"But since we last heard from him, Bishop Farthing was nowhere to be found."

"What?"

Katherine was getting quite frustrated at that point, especially since that made her the next person to deal with their "visitor". Reluctantly, she got up, sighing even heavier. It would've been easier to relay a message telling them to leave, but they couldn't reject a visitor, particularly if it adheres to the situation at hand. And luckily, it did.

After leaving the priestess to handle the archbishop, Katherine met with Commander Alheid, alongside a motley of others: a young second-in-command, an odd-looking man with a magus hat, and a goblin. While the sight of Alheid alone was a godsend since that meant his platoon had arrived from their rounds checking on the Northshire region, the others with him worried her.

"What is this?" she asked spreading her arms out to emphasize the others.

"Lady Katherine, we shall explain in mere moments," Alheid stated, not wasting any time on explanations. "In the Royal Chambers, I . . ."

"Hey!" came a voice from afar. The sound of two panicky people racing down the hall echoed as they all turned and saw who it was.

"Ah, Jedo!" cried the goblin in relief.

"Wait!" shouted both Jedo and Arthur, who stopped in front of them as they caught their breath.

"Is everything okay up here?" questioned a nervous Arthur.

"Define 'okay'?" said Katherine quite bitterly.

"Katherine . . . ? What happened? Where's the archbishop?"

With a saddened look, she gestured over to the altar, where restless priests continued to keep him alive.

"A-Are we too late?" asked Jedo, despair in his voice.

"Well, no," Katherine said sorrowfully, "but his condition isn't getting any better. Even with the priests we have here healing him, his life is still slowly draining."

"May I speak out for a second?" inquired the quiet man with the magus hat. Even his voice was too low in the spacious Cathedral.

"And who might you be, stranger?" questioned Katherine.

"I'm glad you asked. My name is Strahad Forsan, and I will be of great help to you in these times of darkness."

* * *

The great forests around Northshire provided just the right amount of cover for him as he finally slowed down to a stride into the darkness. The plan had gone perfect, although the demons that were unleashed hadn't felt . . . fulfilled.

The figure of Bishop Farthing strode even deeper into the forest, a wide grin on his face. With Benedictus dead, or dying, Stormwind would surely suffer. And with the coming events slowly unfolding, his master would be pleased to hear of his success. Farthing stopped where he stood and concentrated for just a moment. In that instant, a voice entered his mind, an old-sounding crone's.

"I trust your plan went through?" said the crone.

"Of course. You've hired the best. And now, my race shall be freed, correct?"

"Not so fast, my fellow comrade," she continued, "the deal hasn't been completed just yet. You still need to prolong the acts. Be creative."

"Ah, yes," he replied, his features switching from that of a chunky bishop to a humanoid figure. Yellow eyes began to glow in the shadows of the forest, a different voice spoke aloud.

"And after that, those bastards' plans will be foiled at long last. Sweet victory, sweet revenge."


	6. Premonitions

-Chapter 6-

With a yawn, Kolark commenced his work, trying his hardest to fight the fatigue that threatened his income . . . and his life at that. Still, it wouldn't have been fair to say he was out partying the whole time. Ever since taking a breather in the dank Undercity, which gave him an extensive case of paranoia might he add, he had gotten straight to his job. Normally, his clients gave him thorough information in regard to the person or persons involved. The Forsaken had the need to make this mission perfectly vague. However, for such mistrusting creatures of their own kind, it was not unforeseen, for Kolark had recently spotted a group of undead upon landing in Tirisfal Glades. They had acted strangely, well, strange for them. After all, undead collaborating with humans was a rare sight indeed. It was always a good habit for a bounty hunter to pay extra attention to deviating behaviors in his surroundings, especially during times of factional tension.

Even after taking off from the undead capital, Kolark had still been able to tail the creatures, most likely strays. They ended up leading him to a derelict village all the way southeast in Hillsbrad. There, they continued their joint operation with the humans, relaying messages and crates from place to place. The bounty hunter was good, but he was no magician; following them all would therefore be out of the question. Instead, he used the evidence to conclude that the renegade Forsaken had cooperated with the charismatic human counterparts and whoever they worked for. On that note, he decided to follow the humans, feeling he'd find the "mastermind" in charge of this. This led him to a pain-staking pursuit in the shadows all the way past Arathi Highlands and through the horribly uncomfortable Wetlands. From there, the group took an underground route into murkier depths and eventually ended up somewhere he'd guess around Darkshire. After countless nights of dealing with hostile "inhabitants", avoiding detection, keeping track of the target, and finding out how to treat fungus growing on his fur, he was about ready to collapse. However, one night had been quite different.

The team of humans, bearing cheap armor with no signs of alignment, had set up their makeshift encampment by nightfall. Their numbers ranged somewhere from forty to a maximum of fifty, all the more reason to keep his distance. Kolark had to climb a slippery and muddy hillside in order to stay above and away from the rowdy bunch. Even then, it was a handy spot that allowed perfect sight of them and the ability to listen to some of their rather vulgar talk. The first conversation he was able to pick up had also been the last.

"Did ya' see that?" one human murmured out softly, yet loudly enough for the Tauren to hear. The accent was actually not one he had ever heard of. Maybe a dialect of some sort? He continued to listen to the mysterious humans, their dull silvery plated armor glimmering slightly in the moonlight.

"Oh, what now? Is it some bear-owl creature again? Or is it that flying horse-thing that was 'following' us from before?"

The others around the first man began to laugh ruthlessly at the poor boob, but again he insisted pointing at something away from them. Kolark was suddenly relieved when he pointed in the direction opposite to him.

"No, really! I saw 'em! It was a whole gang of people led by some gal! I'm telling you, it's probably . . . her!"

"No kidding?"

At that point, the rest of the group was starting to consider the man's proposition. One man took one of the torches among the camp and raised it up in the air. "If it is her, we'll be rewarded greatly by Maltheon!"

"Yes! We can return to camp with her head and live in luxury for a long time," said another man.

"Think so? Wow, let's nab 'er!"

Given enough time, the camp was filled with cheers and the brandishing of weapons. The night was going to turn into a bloodlust. However, as the excitement escalated, one young man emerged from the largest tent, presumably the leader of the band. He was lightly armored, dressed mainly for appearance. Either he was a really skilled man or a really pathetic fop.

"Alright, ladies. What's the commotion?" His demeanor was almost calm in nature, worry-free in the middle of seemingly nowhere.

"Marcus thinks he found the girl!"

"Hold it!" a grunt in the crowd shouted. "They must have heard us . . . they're getting away!"

At the sight of their prize escaping, Kolark realized he had three choices: continue observing until one side won, "rescue" the girl, or feign allegiance to the gruesome human grunts. One thing was certain, if Sylvanas thought her recreant traitors were associated with demons, the grunts were not to be trusted. That left only saving this girl they wanted dead, or watching as they chopped her to pieces. The choice soon became obvious.

Riding on horseback, the girl's tiny unit moved with incredible agility. However, the leader of the enigmatic entourage began waving his arms midair, his hands becoming a pale blue. Within seconds, an icy wall extended in front of the horseback riders, frightening their horses to a staggering halt. By then, the grunts had gotten their bows and daggers and clubs set to kill.

Kolark, though, had other plans.

When the battle began, several human-like figures on horse made the first strikes, their tall, steady figures deftly using their longbows to kill four of the marauders. With the marked girl at the rear, several knightly men from her brigade charged forward, chopping down some more men along the way with mere swings of their broadswords. They were quite the skilled ones. However, a group of three grunts took down one knight who let down his guard, clubbing him off of his horse. Two of the three were then showered with arrows in retribution. Interestingly, the death of the first wave of marauders seemed to equate with the loss of that one horseback rider.

Kolark watched from a nearby tree as the girl they sought so desperately began to charge her own magic spell. According to Kolark, the two oppositions seemed nearly equally matched. But he decided to favor the riders. From his sniping position, he unsheathed his much-loved Tanaris Blunderbuss, a costly gun made just until recent. He set in a goblin firebug, a bullet with quite the explosive touch, into the rifle. He took another look at the fierce battle, saw the girl use some sorcery from the earth, acid steam eating at their foes. He aimed carefully behind them. One shot, and the wall of ice shattered at the base, falling down in a loud crash that pierced the ears of the combatants. After dealing mortal blows to a few more, the riders took off in the direction they intended, meanwhile, the warmongers split up into two unorganized mobs; one after the fleeing contingent and the other trying to figure out his whereabouts. However, now that his decision was made, Kolark did not fear them knowing his whereabouts.

"Come out you coward!" cried out one his pursuers.

"Don't ever call me that," Kolark simply replied, pulling the trigger on the foolish man. His body crumpled down in less than a second.

"There he is!" shouted an anonymous voice among the group. "Get him!"

With much cussing, they rushed on after him. He shot the first two who thought it wise to charge someone with a gun. Kolark blasted away all else who held some kind of courage, but push soon came to shove. When his cache of ammo had run low, he eventually found himself nearly surrounded. That was when he bolted for the melting pieces of ice, looking for the one thing that could possibly save his hide.

"There you are, fella."

Pacing nervously was the white horse that got left behind when its owner was clubbed to death. Kolark raced toward it, slightly unnerving the animal. He scowled at the thought, but the horse would have to support his bulk. He tried to fit his wide hooves into the footrest on the saddle, which wasted enough precious time. The horse let out a strangled gasp when the bounty hunter finally rested his rump on the tiny seat.

With a loud whoop and a tug on the reigns, Kolark made like a typical human rider and took off. It wasn't as hard as many made it to be, besides the fact that this horse was as strong as two orcs put together. Just a tad slower, but it raced fast enough. Kolark was nearly pelted by arrows when he glanced behind him and saw a line of archers aiming their bows up high. Again, a rain of arrows came flurrying down, projectiles of death. He didn't know if the horse was dodging or he was actually instructing it the way one should. Either way, he was doing good. He must've spoken too soon, though.

The arrows halted when the target left their reach, but then came a much higher threat. Large columns of ice came crashing left and right every which way, causing him to steer erratically; it was the work of that damned mage. The horse seemed petrified, neighing sharply as one of the columns nearly took its whole right side off. Kolark took some blind shots behind him, in case several managed to find stray horses of their own and was glad to hear some strangled cries behind him. The surprise that came afterward, though, had summed up his luck; as he turned back to the front, he saw the open ravine that introduced the Searing Gorge. With much might, he pulled the reigns back, bringing the horse to a sliding stop. Kolark was literally at the edge of the rocky cliff when the horse finally noticed the lethal fall. He veered around, seeing the enemies from off in the distance. A few more minutes, and the arrows and ice spells would be upon him.

"Over here!" shouted a voice from his left. It was the same unit that he defended. They came back to lead him to safety. The female leader gestured over to the far west, which meant their destination was Elwynn Forest, a.k.a. Stormwind. "Follow close behind."

Kolark(or the horse) followed as she had instructed him to edging away into some offshoot road into a canyon. And at the moment, the Tauren Bounty hunter was contemplating on two things only: who was she and why was she on their hit list? Her answers would also help him uncover who exactly those men were, who this "Maltheon" was, and eventually who it was the undead traitors worked for. It seemed he made the right choice yet again, another score for the greatest bounty hunter on Azeroth. As he began to relax his tensed body, he frowned angrily as his itchy fur started up again.

"Any reason why you decided to save us?" came a voice from his right. Embarrassed for being caught scratching his infection like some dirty old animal, Kolark looked at the speaker irately. Surprisingly, it was a young female human, no older than twenty. She eyed him carefully, smiling all the while. She must've been that one person they were after.

"Doesn't seem like you care much anymore," he replied, "after all, you saved me back."

"Oh, please," she laughed, "I was just repaying the favor. Besides, it was kind of amusing to watch you ride one of our steads."

"Heh, glad you enjoyed the show. But, seriously, why were those amateurs after you? I overheard them talk about how their leader wants you dead." The girl's smile faded. She had an especially delicate look to her, the brilliant sheen of blue in her hair atypical of any human girl he'd witnessed. For her to be a leader of some unit, let alone an entire army, was something Kolark could not imagine. Had Stormwind run out of able fighters? And had they waged battle that quickly? He wanted to know more, but to bombard her with questions meant to blow his cover as the Forsaken's mercenary. He wouldn't have that, not after what he went through thus far.

"It seems someone is always on my tail," she said with a sigh. "That's why I'm really hoping you're not one of them. But I think I can trust you . . . maybe."

"Maybe?" Kolark's eyes widened as if to appear outraged. "If you must know, I am a member of the race of Tauren that reside in Moonglade, investigating the strange mannerisms of these odd humans."

Kolark also took note that his mannerisms would have to be carefully managed, for the retinue had kept careful eyes on the Tauren.

They had reached a field of greenery, the entire area covered in blooming trees and wild grass. The sky was bright blue with a tinge of orange-yellow on the east as morning cast its first shine.

"Oh, really? Well, friendly or not, I couldn't possibly let you join my brigade, or enter my secret headquarters either," the girl added playfully.

"Wait, do you mean you're not from Stormwind?"

"Ah, the capital of the Alliance. No, I'm not from any faction. It would also be folly of me to say I'm from anywhere around here. But, how stupid of me not to introduce myself. The name's Scarlet. I wish I could tell you more about myself, but now isn't the greatest time."

"Well, my name is Kolark, the boun- . . . er, black . . . smith. Yeah, Kolark the blacksmith." Kolark momentarily grimaced at his horrible recovery, his habit of giving out his true title a horrible shortcoming indeed. "Blacksmith"? Kolark knew nothing of the ways of a blacksmith.

"Really? Wow, I wish I could buy one of your wares, but again, duty calls." Scarlet paused, patting her white horse absently, and then brightened when she came up with a solution. "Well, I'm going to Stormwind to take care of some business. Why don't you take some of your wares to town and make a profit?"

"Um, you aren't from around here, are you? Tauren would be considered minced meat in the Alliance capital!"

"Don't know much of your own clan, eh?" she retorted equally. "Members of the Cenarian Circle are considered welcomed in Stormwind ever since the last war. They'll monitor you well, but as long as you're a part of Moonglade and not the Horde, no prejudices will be held toward you."

The girl was good. Kolark was rarely corrected by anyone, but then again, he set that one up. He may have not been a good liar, but he knew history like it was his life. And she was right. But he had no proof to be a member of the druids of Moonglade. There went the whole mission.

"Um, it's actually quite embarrassing, but I don't have my wares on me. That's why I don't want to go into town. Anyways, as I said before, I was spying on those men who were after you. Tell me, can you say anything about a man by the name of 'Maltheon'?"

"Hmm, Maltheon, huh? I was wondering how long it would take him to track me down."

"Ah, so you do know him? It would be wise to say that the Cenarian Circle beseeches you information on this man."

Kolark felt himself tingle with the success that had been fleeting for a while. Even then, the girl had a look of interest worn on her face.

"There isn't much to this man. He is kinda like me, not a member of a faction, yet hunting me and my men down. May I add, I work for someone whose identity I cannot reveal. So, I'll stop there."

Close, but the girl was careful with her words. He glanced at his surroundings and saw that they were nearly at the capital. Time was ticking.

"Oh, well. I suppose I should return to Moonglade empty-handed. They won't be pleased at all."

"Ugh, I'll tell you what," said the girl, feeling pity for the creature, "I'll leave my men at a camp near Stormwind. Then, I will quickly meet with those I need to speak with and return abruptly. After that, you can ask me all you want about Maltheon in exchange for your help earlier. Deal?"

There was an Earthmother. Who would've known such a convenient proposition would be made? Either way, he completely agreed.

"Definitely. That would be a great idea."

"Good. I just don't want to be late for this crucial moment."

It seemed surreal, but things were going smoothly. Too smoothly for Kolark. The group of soldiers, again, like the brutes from before, bearing no insignia, set up camp among some hills near the capital city. They had all kinds of food, which was a plus since Kolark had run short. Scarlet and a few others were getting ready to depart, but Kolark had just one more question for the blue-haired knight.

"Wait, Scarlet," he began after swallowing a chunk of strider haunch. "Could you tell me what it is that is of immediate danger in Stormwind? As a druid, I like to know these things to help preserve the peace." The lie was perfect.

"Let's just say something of great strength is encroaching over us. I want to alert the only faction that may possibly listen to me. And because I am human . . . you get the rest, right?"

"Ah, of course."

Kolark knew it. There was a faint, yet conspicuous connection between the undead conspiracies and the girl and her pursuers. The bounty hunter would not give up his search for the truth. But that also meant he would have to follow the girl to confirm this . . . and find out firsthand what this "crucial moment" was. Kolark sneered to himself as he continued to munch, only to groan as his fur acted up yet again. With much more humility, he questioned one of the soldiers, "Would anyone happen to know an antifungal spell?"

* * *

-Stormwind, two days after the riot-

It was the second day after the horrible incident in the Stockades, and Jedo had the same nightmare. Nothing in it had made any sense, but he still woke up in a sweaty fervor, fear fleeing his body as he caught his breath. In his dream, there was nothing but fire in his vision. Nothing but the sound of screams. However, he seemed to feel great anger, rage, and despair well up within him. It was overwhelming.

Next to him, Chappy was wide awake, staring surprisingly at his friend.

"Are you okay, Jedo?" he asked with mild amusement. Jedo wiped his forehead and gave him a skeptical look.

"Why are you here, Chappy? It's only the evening."

It was actually nightfall. All afternoon, the boy had felt weary, so he was advised to take a nap by the clerics of Stormwind Keep. A lot had happened all at once, it seemed like a very dream. He had become a hero of Stormwind after the incredible attacks in the prisons below. However, celebrations were not in place, for their beloved archbishop had fallen ill. He and Chappy had gotten special treatment since that fateful day.

Jedo had explained everything to his goblin friend; the rioting, the Tauren girl, the demons. All Chappy remembered was buying gizmos, fighting through a vicious crowd, and finally making his way to Jedo, who he feared for. Even after the events, Jedo had been warned by both Katherine and Arthur not to mention the demons at all until further information could be attained. So only Jedo and his trusted friend knew of it.

"Listen, Jedo," said the goblin with excitement. "I think the King and the council people are finally done."

He was pointing outside the room, where that creepy man, Strahad, had stayed at for the same number of nights they had. He had just left his room for the royal chambers, or so Chappy noticed. After that horrible riot, the king of Stormwind and the National Council had been locked away in their stuffy royal room for days, probably thinking up something for the figurehead king to say in response; even Alheid, a commander of the kingdom, was not allowed in to report. Jedo was starting to suspect that his uncle had been right all along about the aristocracy. That Strahad character had especially been peeved by the way the nobles were acting.

"Come on, let's follow him!" Chappy said while jumping. "Maybe we'll get a chance to speak and save poor Pala. They'll definitely listen to a hero like you!"

Jedo smirked at him, at the same time considering it. He did have a point; Pala may not make it much longer, especially after the attack down below. They'd probably kill her in response, maybe hold her as the main culprit of the demonic sacrifice.

"Yeah, let's hurry, for Pala's sake."

They left their rooms to be greeted by an anxious elf priest who failed to keep Strahad in his room. Sadly, he was going to fail to keep them in as well.

"Hello," he said tiredly. "I don't suppose you'll be leaving your rooms, too?"

The two nodded in agreement, and the elf just sighed.

"I won't stop you either, I guess."

With that, Jedo thanked the poor priest and hurried off to locate Strahad. By then, he had been arguing with a Paladin guard at the entrance.

"What do you mean?! I've wasted two precious days waiting to simply speak with your king! These are pressing matters!"

"I am sorry, but . . . "

Just as the knight had spoken, the double doors to the chambers swung opened, revealing the enormous room within. Alheid had already been inside, standing before King Anduin Wrynn. The king was a well-structured young man, a bit on the scrawny side. He was still fairly young for a king, somewhere around his twenties. He did not look happy at all.

In that instance, Strahad strode inside, his cape lofting behind him as he kept his eyes on the gigantic display before him. Behind the diminutive king sat the National Council on a half-circular booth, rising high above the king's throne. Only their shadowy figures were exposed at such a distance, yet, Jedo could sense their piercing glares at both him and the strange robed man.

Upon entering, Jedo could see Katherine and Arthur, their faces filled with strifeand sorrow. Strahad, as expected had been the first to speak.

"I finally have the pleasure of speaking with the king and his retinue, do I?" he began, his face stern. "Well, it's about time."

"Watch yourself, sir," said an elderly female from among the council. She appeared faintly like a human, but Jedo was unsure. "You are now in the capital city of the Alliance. Regardless of faction, I advise you to be careful what you do and what you say."

"Whatever," he retorted. "There is much to be discussed. In the . . . lengthy, amount of time I've waited for an audience, I've been investigating this strange curse placed upon your archbishop. It seems almost incurable."

"And who might you be?" questioned a male night elf, his pointed ears easily seen through the darkness.

"His name is Strahad," interrupted Katherine with distaste.

"And that's all you need to know. I came to warn everyone of the coming danger that's just on the horizon. The demons have finished some preparations of unknown sorts and are going to begin a most horrible attack."

"How are you so sure of this, stranger?" scolded an elderly man, most likely a dwarf by his accent. The rest of the council seemed to wear intense looks as well, although not so clear.

"I suppose prophecies are considered a joke to those of such high standards. However, let us try this. Many demonic entities have already exploited our fellow warlocks by breaking the delicate leash that bound them to their masters. Researchers of dark arts are falling victims to the subjects they experimented on. Warlocks are being controlled instead of the other way around. Even now, I am sure you are having difficulties controlling some of your . . . erratic, men. These are all signs. In fact, the very soil your precious city stands on seems to have some faint correlation to the appearance of demons in your lands. Namely, the Stockades."

There was a prolonged silence among them all. Even the king had no words to say. One member of the council shook his head steadily.

"That is still no proof that we can contend with. We have dealt with the menacing Burning Legion and sent them scurrying. The best we could do with your rather lacking, slipshod evidence would be to investigate the matter when we finish with the one at hand."

"Well, litte boy," Strahad stated to the king with a wry smirk, "why don't you give some input as well? Maybe what you'll say will be wiser than their skepticism."

"Are you taunting our king?" questioned a man sitting at the center of the council. He stood up, revealing himself fully. "I am his advisor, and the leader of the Alliance, Trevor Frohm. If there's any 'input' to be placed, he will do so with our consent. He is still young, and needs much to learn in the ways of diplomacy."

"Is that so? Well, my apologies. I am not looking for believers. I am looking for defenders of this land. Do not make the same fatal mistake Lordaeron made. Even now, they are trying their hardest to enter our realm. I am going to give you just one chance; join forces with both ally and foe. Do as the mighty Jaina Proudmoore had and put aside your differences and cooperate, for the coming of Apocalypse is at hand!"

There was whispering among the council, and even the advisor couldn't help a smile peer on his face, his gray eyes bland, filled with no particular emotion. His brown, well-groomed hair was as tactful as his collective gaze. He knew exactly what to say, what to do, Strahad was sure of it. It was still worth a shot, he told himself.

"You strike me with such a speach, Strahad. We will take a moment to discuss this with the king. We shall let you know our decision before dusk. The king would appreciate if all but the council vacated the royal chambers."

"One last word," Strahad added without even facing the assembly, "I should advise, especially to the young king, to do what you feel is true for your people. Yes, the people. It is they who matter most, and they who shall suffer the worst."

Jedo gave Chappy a grave look. It seemed the council wanted "private time" yet again. But Jedo wouldn't have it. He'd force them to listen, even if he had to engage them each individually.

"Wait! I know you are all busy at the moment, but I have a very important request."

"Yeah, and he's the main man who helped at the Stockades!" Chappy pointed out.

"Is that so?" Frohm said with interest. "Then consider yourself lucky. We shall listen to what you have to say, but please, make it brief."

"Might I add that the mastermind who engineered the riot and attack had been defeated," he began, "I request that we free one prisoner who helped us to fight them off. Her name is Pala, and she is a Tauren who came to the capital meaning no harm, but only to warn us of the same exact thing Strahad spoke of. She could possibly help the archbishop!"

"Preposterous!" exclaimed the elderly woman from the council.

"She was trying to challenge the king, I heard her with my own two ears!" lied the dwarven council member.

"Silence," said Frohm with a calm voice. "As you can see, she is not nearly as innocent as you portray her. She is a danger to us all, at the moment. If our negotiations with the Horde end favorably, we'll consider it. If she has any ties to the atrocities that went on below, she will indisputably be punished."

"But, she . . ."

"Listen, young man," the woman called out like razor daggers, "we have had a very rough day. Do not tempt us. You may have helped quell the uprising in some way, but we are careful when we deal with the scum from down below. And that day two days ago was the tip of the iceberg."

"Couldn't we just free the poor woman?" blurted out King Anduin, shocking the council. "She has done us no wrong. I have no doubt that she saved this boy and the others."

"My, my, your highness. We should control our hormones!" Trevor Frohm's words had undoubtedly infuriated the king, but still he did nothing. "The decision remains until we get things under control. I thank you, young man, for your suggestion. All will be decided shortly."

After that brief, and somehow unnerving conversation, Jedo felt a surge of helplessness and frustration course through him. It had been worse than he thought. They had listened, but did nothing.

Moments after, a knight broke into the chamber, hurrying over to where the king and council stood.

"Your highness! Commandership Frohm! There's been an attack, from the Horde!"

"What?!" shouted Frohm, startling the king from his throne. "Impossible! After that agreement we had with them?! Send a messenger to Commander Arfulus in the Badlands, immediately!"

"Wait, attacks from who?" questioned King Anduin.

"It's the Orcs and the Undead, milord!"

"It's just as that Tauren had said," the king pointed out. Frohm shook his head in an emotion none could perceive.

". . . send her out."

* * *

It was the moment Eitrigg looked forward to for quite awhile. It was still hard to believe, but the most frightful event to take place in the last few years had sparked a chance for true peace. With the good news from Vol'jin, stating he'd bring a woman and a Tauren who could help Thrall's ailment, and the Alliance's leaders agreeing to hear out the Horde, Eitrigg felt as if for once, the light had been shining down upon the orcs. They were regaining their glory.

Eitrigg and only two other representatives were to report to an outdated outpost of the Alliance's in Stonesplinter Valley just above the Badlands, where they'd state their proposals. The odds were against them, with them entering territory formerly favoring the Alliance and having very little men to take along. Still, it was a chance the Horde would otherwise never receive. Despite their kindness to discuss matters, Eitrigg couldn't help but wonder why they gave in so quickly. Nonetheless, he wasted no time. Opportunity was at their doorstep.

The man they were to speak with was a commander of the Stormwind army, going by the name Baron Arfulus. He was a rather sedulous-looking man who seemed like he may actually care more for his people, and not for political gain; a plus for them.

"Hello, friend," Eitrigg began with a sturdy nod, "as many of your folk would say."

"Welcome, Eitrigg," greeted the man, "I've received all the details from the king. I presume it is peace you want to discuss?"

"Yes! And what better time than any, wouldn't you agree? We have been in a somewhat unspoken truce for quite some time."

"Hmm, yes. That is true."

The man's interest seemed to be there somewhere. Eitrigg would not get disillusioned so easily, though. This was what his people wanted. And he was going to grant it to them, no matter what.

"Our current leader, Nazgrel, speaks out in place of an ill Thrall to propose that we have a truce between the Horde and the Alliance. Many unusual things have begun to run course through our lands, and I fear this is caused by the nefarious acts of demons! Whether this is true or unfounded, we, as civilized beings no longer associated with our grim past, beseech you to . . ."

"Sir!" came a shout from a young man. He entered the dusty old cabin in quite the urgency. Eitrigg suddenly felt a chill run through his spine as he trailed off.

"What is it?! Can't you see I'm in the middle of an important meeting?" Arfulus shouted.

The boy whispered something in the commander's ear, something that made him gasp aloud.

"What?! This can't be! The Horde deceived us?!"

At those words, Eitrigg felt his chest, as well as his whole world, shatter to the ground. How could something so close end up so far away? It was inconceivable to imagine the Horde doing anything of the sort for no apparent reason.

"That is preposterous!" Eitrigg fought back. "It was an official edict delivered from our leader. Why would he do anything to betray his own proclamation?!"

"Silence, orc!" cried the commander, pounding a fist onto the wooden table. "I'd sooner thrust my blade unto me than to trust your foul words!"

"Put him to rout!" cried one soldier.

"Deliver him to justice!" shouted another.

"No! This cannot be right! There must be a misunderstanding . . ."

"The only misunderstanding here is you, orc! Explain to me, then, how my home town and capital is nearly under siege!"

The orc looked at his fellow representatives with utter disappointment, and with fury and desperation, said the only thing that came close to his lips. "Damn you, Nazgrel!"


	7. Battle of Stormwind

-Chapter 7-

Gates were smashed open. Walls and towers soon followed the same fate . The city of Stormwind was being ravaged ruthlessly, given no reprieve from the assault that occurred from within. From the west sea, goblin zeppelins flew past and continuously poured out orc warriors armed with giant axes and the longest of long swords. From the far east came undead soldiers, the color of their armor matching perfectly with their grotesquely pale skin. They bombarded the entire front entrance with the might of twenty dragons. Archers, who stood on the battlement on the city wall, were the first to bear witness to the sheer numbers, and it was they who sounded the first alarm and began to unload the intruders. Belonging to the reformed Order of the Silver Hand, the largest army, and also the army of the absent general, was taken to the front gates where the savages would soon crash through.

From within the city's gates, the citizens cried out in a frenzy panic. Mothers scurried about to find and take hold of their children. People screamed and pointed, the hysteria building. Hines was issued to keep the peace among the townsfolk, and thus rallying up the citizens as calmly as he could, led them as far away from the entrance as possible. Other patrol knights helped Hines in gathering the citizens to the far-off safety the Cathedral provided, for at the moment, the city streets were going to run crimson red. Commander Alheid, meanwhile, was charged with commanding both his army and Xadek's Order of the Silver Hand, a risky task. Brave soldiers had already assembled at the front gates, prepared to engage the enemy the minute they set foot into their beloved home. It wasn't too long before the armies had witnessed the downfall of their archers; they were either dead, crushed to death as the wall beneath them crumbled, or fled the "safety" of the battlement's parapets.

Meanwhile, inside the royal chambers, Pala, the Tauren shaman, was being brought forth as requested. Four well-armed guards escorted her, her arms also shackled behind her back for fear of her wicked "sorcery". She entered the fancy room, bearing witness to the very council that bore her away in that wretched prison to rot. Yet, she held no anger toward them. Off at the edge, she noticed Jedo, a nervous smile peered on his face. But then he nodded confidently; the boy had done it.

Throughout the moment, the ground would shake and quiver with the oncoming attacks the orcs and undead set in motion. It seemed the most awkward time, but the Tauren knew someway to save Stormwind, Jedo had the feeling. Pala looked straight ahead where the king and the leader of the council stood, their glare much more intense. However, it was not the king who spoke out first, but the heinous man.

"Pala, is it?" Trevor Frohm said with relative calm despite the current situation. "Word has it that you foresaw this, correct?"

"Faintly, but yes," she replied with the same calmness. "I did see this coming from within my dreams. It was more of a generalized prophecy, though."

"Interesting. Then, may I ask you a more logical question? How do we know you didn't just plan this all out?"

"I beg your pardon?" she enquired with a disheveled look.

"Ever since you were held captive, everything fell apart, beginning with the onslaught that ensued down below in the Stockades. Then, out of mere chance, your brethren come forth with their armies and attempt to capture our beloved city!"

Everyone in the room noticed the advisor's tone augment as he spoke. Whispers permeated through the morbid chamber as if Pala had been on trial. The Tauren only lowered her head.

"So, Tauren," he continued, "what have we to hear? Is this not your own fabricated scheme? If not, I would love for you to predict me the Stormwind Lottery numbers!"

Despite the vicious criticism, only several members of the council managed a few chuckles. Jedo was unimpressed and completely appalled by the way Frohm treated her. But the Tauren would not let it get to her. If it had been an orc or troll, there would have been a dead advisor and an executed beast.

"To mock me is one thing, but to mock fate is foolhardy," she said levelly. "I suppose even now you are all blind to the evil around you. You are all a part of this design, and as such, this makes you all victims just as I am. I shall not hold hatred to any of you, even if you decide to address me falsely as the mastermind of all this. As we speak, we fall right into the conspirer's hand. Do what you will to me, but know this. It will not change your predicament."

The council eyed her with much suspicion. It was becoming harder and harder to ignore the intensifying attacks. Frohm folded his hands behind him, closing his eyes.

"The battle gets ever closer. And your words have done nothing to clear this mess, Tauren, so with these words I say to you adieu! Adieu and deal with your spiritual nonsense in the afterlife."

With a gesture of dismissal, Trevor strode over to the king.

"Your first orders, your royal highness?"

"Hold it!" called out someone from the far end of the vast room. It was Strahad, whose shout echoed even to the very edge of the room. All attention turned to him. "Don't even think for a minute that you will win this battle by sitting here and deciding whether the 'mastermind' will live or die!"

"What is this?" said Frohm, sounding amused. His face revealed serious concern, though; the first real emotion he'd ever shown. "I have already sent for reinforcements to Ironforge via underground route. Help should arrive shortly. What makes you doubt the king, stranger?"

"The only way to defend your dear city is to trust in Pala. She is the only one who can salvage a place of this size in a matter of minutes. Hurry and release her before we're all dead!"

"Surely, he's gone mad!" cried someone from the council's seating.

"He's one of them! He must be a demon!"

"Silence!" scolded the king, holding all the attention in the room that very instant. Even Frohm held his tongue. "By my authorization, I demand that you release Pala!"

The guards were about to get right to it, until Frohm held out his palm without a word.

"Young king, as your advisor, I am warning you to watch what you order. For all you know, she could be readying a spell of death to cast upon you . . ."

"I said silence! I want no more of this from you, Frohm! For the past months, you've done nothing but manipulate me, and I won't have it this time! My-our fair city is at the brink of destruction, but I won't see it burnt to the ground by your hand! Guards, release her. I want all the knights available to continue holding down the intruders until reinforcements arrive, no questions asked. Pala, I want you to do what you can to save my people. Then, I shall grant you your freedom."

Shocked, yet obedient to the man who assumed the throne, their king, all did as they were told. With pleasant nod of recognition to the king, Pala immediately began chanting, her arms undulating as she concentrated a most potent spell.

"I shall rally up the spellcasters," Strahad announced. "I will do whatever is in my power to help . . . your highness."

Frohm noticed the irony Strahad had intended to imply. He only stared back in bitter hatred at the man. His eyes seemed to glow as he did so, and within seconds, Strahad was gone, teleporting into the midst of battle.

Jedo, too was already running out of the safety of the royal chambers, off to assist in this decisive fight. Even Chappy was off, gathering all his engineering devices. This left the council, the king, the royal guards, and of course Pala in that very room. And a particularly furious Trevor Frohm.

* * *

The final gate into the city shuddered its last as it plummeted to the ground, exposing the monsters who raged onto the streets of the Alliance capital. Orcs rode wolf-back, swinging ball-n-chains that crashed through stone, wood, and bone as if made of glass. No sooner had soldiers charged them, their swords rending through orc flesh and their shields guarding against otherwise deadly blows. From above, mages shot forth daggers of ice and bolts of flame, impaling and incinerating canine and orc alike.

Over the western wall flew the horrific Forsaken, riding on gigantic, altered undead bats. They seethed with the growing hate already inside them. It was a matter of time before the Old Town was captured by the monstrous undead creatures, the Paladins and cavalry still no match for their overwhelming numbers. They tore through houses and walls, looking for fresh living to shred apart. Orc shaman and undead shadow priests wreaked havoc upon unsuspecting guards, incapacitating them with malevolent spells before they knew what hit them, leaving entry on that part of town clear. Other Horde spellcasters deceptively fired from a distance behind friendly units rather than use guerilla tactics.

However, the dwarves already within Stormwind walls had managed to block off both bridges leading out of the Old Town, leaving the undead cretins stranded for the moment. Still, they would only stall the inevitable, and they knew it. Even elves from Darnassus who've traveled to the human capital for trade and politics effectively used their bows to take down mainly the undead's light-armored forces. They fought just as tenaciously as the orcs had, who tried with brute strength to get through the first line of defense. Once they'd succeed, though, all hell would break loose.

It wasn't long before the Stormwind defenders at the front entrance were unable to hold the line. The Trade District suddenly became a warring battlefield as orc and human fought to the death. Bodies of knights and Paladins slumped down bloodily just the same as orcs and trolls had. But even then, the mighty Horde's numbers were still overwhelming. The zombie people too were gaining the upper hand, thwarting the meager number of dwarven allies who had lost the last of their priests.

As the line of foes swarmed in, Stormwind's spellcasters wasted no time. Strahad and the others summoned forth the water elements to slow their progress. Aquatic arms reached out from the moat surrounding the first gate, extending and grabbing a fistful of nearby orcs. Pulled under by the overlying water, dozens of orcs were drowned before they even reached the watery depths of the moat. Water elementals rose from their moat dwelling, joining the fray and pummeling the orcs and trolls in their faces with blasts of water that choked them into submission. This tactic was ineffective against the undead, though, who rarely found the need to even breath.

Strahad turned his focus over toward the ravenous undead, who persisted against the last remaining dwarves in the Old District. He used the elemental might of the flames by summoning arcane magic from the torches all around town. Braziers hung up on walls spewed forth fiery blasts at the zombie creatures, sending them ablaze and scuttling about like insects. Some were too fried to even move, falling to the ground to form nothing more than mere ashes and armor. He also created fire elementals to help quell the attacks with their fiery touch.

Chappy and Jedo had a more defensive role. The master goblin engineer had sent in some of his latest contraptions, miniature cannons infused with erratic hearthstones, at a giant tower above Stormwind Keep. The "weapon" was completed when he found the last components in town. The sly cannon, as he nicknamed it, would charge up and upon firing would send a target teleporting anywhere between fifty to one hundred yards away, completely disorienting foes and getting them lost within the walls of the foreign city. Even better was the fact that those teleported into walls or other structures were utterly compressed and suffocated under stone or wood . . . or even their own comrades. However, the tiny gadgets took quite awhile to charge and still had some bugs to them. Jedo concentrated his swordplay and footwork on those who got far enough to the Cathedral. As a final stand against truly skilled orcs(or just entirely brutal), Jedo also used the only Paladin skills available in his arsenal that Arthur had introduced to him.

Moments later, several figures in the southern sky came forth, diving for the mob of orcs that permeated the main district. Feathered and furred, the flying beasts readied their talons and beaks and attacked posthaste, riving green flesh and rot with each swoop. Others were beheaded by the beasts' riders, who held battle axes in muscular arms; the dwarves of Ironforge had arrived at last. A militia of about fifty gryphons hovered above the massacre, awaiting their dwarven masters as they themselves tossed their famed Stormhammers. Although more evened, the orcs' persistence and the trolls' outstanding ranged attacks made for a challenge, even for the reputable dragon slayers.

In due time, the Alliance's forces were finally able to push the Horde armies relatively out of the town's districts, but not without facing many losses. However, shortly within that time, a flash opened up and around Stormwind's perimeter, a light-blue, transparent barrier that healed the living within it and immolated the ones on the outside of it. Above the mighty half-sphere dome of light lingered a most beautiful angelic spirit, who soon after disappeared and caused a most horrible storm. It was undoubtedly Pala's doing. After that, it was just a matter of clearing the city of the enemy scum still left behind. Men and woman cheered and cried out with joy as their enemies' advance was permanently halted. Gryphons riders circled the city with majesty, throwing fists up in valor. Knights firmly placed themselves in line beside their flagbearer, emboldened by the dwarves' arrival. The Cathedral, at one point dismal and dreary, became a place of joy as the people rejoiced.

Slightly smaller forces of dwarves swarmed the Dwarven District and the Old Town, cleansing the area for any strayed forces of the orcs and undead. Outside of the barrier, there too had been battle. A small force of knights, to the surprise of all, commanded by a Tauren in red had charged them at the rear from the very start, taking the Horde by surprise; because of them, the army was forced to divert their attention and troops to both sides, a godsend that wasn't realized until the very end of the battle. If that wasn't more reassurance of their defeat, Commander Arfulus' forces had begun to arrive from the Badlands. It wasn't until the Horde noticed yet a third force arriving that they foresaw their defeat.

A horn sounded from somewhere in the Horde mob just outside the city. As they headed west toward the sea, where their zeppelin awaited their escape. Commencing attack, the dwarven Grypon riders were only able to obliterate one of the half-dozen zeppelins, sending it plummeting through one of their towers and into the dark depths of the sea. Nonetheless, the battle had been won. Stormwind lived to see yet another day indeed.

* * *

Inside Stormwind Keep, King Anduin Wrynn watched as his forces drove away the orcish forces and finished the undead monstrocities. He watched as knights and paladins slew those still with the will to fight, and saw the swooping gryphon riders carry away unwitting enemies of the Light. The fight had gone in their favor, thank the Light. Anduin felt a jolt of relief; his first true command as king, all on his own. He had finally gotten the reigns of the council off of him. But now . . .

He turned to a rancorous Trevor, who hadn't taken his eyes off him in the past ten minutes. The king eyed him back with the same humming ire within him. Pala had just finished chanting and looked for a spot to rest.

"Looks like your highness actually saved the town, all by himself," he said, not a smile creeping on his morbid face. "To rely on a repulsive creature as a Tauren. Hmph. Who would've known."

"Yes, and I trust her more than I do you," snapped Anduin.

"Oh? You've only known her for how long? And I've been at your side all this time. Such a fickle king should not rule such a city as this."

"Leader of Alliance or not, don't forget who's the king around here, Frohm." Anduin's words were ice compared to Trevor's words of fire. However, ice can only stand up to so much heat for so long.

"And don't you forget what the deal is, why I assume more authority than you, spoiled little brat!"

The king didn't falter like the advisor thought he would. Instead, he shook his head, firmly spreading his hands before the man.

"I no longer care! So you know my father's whereabouts and supposedly know that he still lives. I will not jeopardize the lives of my people! It's what my father would've done if it were the other way around, and now I finally understand why. Now I kick myself in the ass for ever listening to you after all these years!"

Trevor's eyes began to glow again, only this time they really did. A sinister smile was set on his face. It was the same look he gave the young man when he was first threatened. Trevor Frohm wasn't even the man's true name. According to his words, a group of Dragons disguised as humans had taken Anduin's poor father to his doom. For all Anduin knew, this fake was probably one himself.

"Won't listen no more, will you?" he hissed. "Well, no matter. I wondered how long my threats would last on you. Not the council nor the nobles have a clue as to who I am. And neither do you, apparently. And now, no one will even know how their beloved king fell so suddenly ill during the horrible skirmish."

Pulling out a slender, shining syringe, Trevor crept closer to the young man, his approach swift and unrelenting.

"You . . . wouldn't dare!"

The man injected the boy with the needle, the boy giving very little resistance. Anduin watched before him as the royal guard did nothing to defend him. He watched as Trevor's devious smile fell upon him. And at the very far end, before his eyes closed, he saw a larger figure. The Tauren shaman had just entered the empty chambers to encounter the gruesome scene.

"King Anduin!" she shouted sharply, but to no avail.

Trevor turned around to see the female Tauren, shock infused within her limbs. Already, the slim boy became limp in the arm that clasped him.

"Guards, take care of her. Make sure she does not live." His words were ice cold, uncaring. "After you almost unveiled my plots, Tauren, I thought it was over. However, I guess I wasn't in your little prophetic script. Now, you shall know all the secrets to the spirits . . . in death! Kill her!"

Pala summoned forth several spiritual orbs around her that deflected all attacks upon herself, the armored knights' pole-arms doing absolutely no harm to her.

"How could you do this, human? To your own kind!"

As she deflected several more attacks, the angelic spirit she had called upon earlier came forth and zapped away the guards to the ground. Armor fell to pieces, but not a single body fell out onto the ground. Pala, for the first time, became truly fearful of him.

"You're right, I couldn't do this to my own kind. I am loyal to my kind to an extent, at least. And all humankind . . . along with the other races out there, shall know my fury. There was never such a thing as coincidence on Azeroth, shaman. No, not even my father's death."

The guards reanimated instantly, not even undone by the attack of the fleeting spirit. There was nothing more she could do; she needed to lead Jedo out of Stormwind as soon as possible. Nothing else mattered.

_The floating island. That island._


	8. The Duress of Destiny

-Chapter 8-

-Moments after the Horde's defeat, in the undead capital, the Undercity.-

The Royal Chambers emitted the worst of shrieks. Much so, that even the many denizens of the Undercity, as glacial and nonchalant as they were, began to cower in fear. Their queen was angry, but not just casual-angry, extremely angry. However, the Forsaken weren't idiots despite their Scourge counterparts, who were literally mindless zombies. They would continue about their daily tasks, especially avoiding the southwest quarters of the Apothecarium, where the Royal Chambers lay just adjacent to.

Master Apothecary Faranell just shut his nearly transparent eyelids, basking in the temporary silence underground in his sanctum. The New Plague had been just about perfected, and after ample testing on pathetic humans and other foes, he was just about ready to deliver the banshee queen the good news. Now, he didn't know whether this was such a promising idea. The Dark Lady's chamber was basically right next door, and already he could hear her horrible cries and uncontrollable tantrums. Many times, he reconsidered her leadership, her instability quite questionable. However, many more times, he thought about her deeds and her determination and decided she was the best for the Forsaken. It was she who rallied the "newly awakened" and fought against the Lich King. She nearly killed his paltry lapdog, Arthas, and was able to reestablish a force among the boggled undead. Had it not been for her, they probably would've ended up as Scourge minions again.

Faranell exhaled, a gurgled, raspy sigh. It was his duty, after all. It was also something that would cheer up the Dark Lady, somewhat. He placed on his cowl and shambled up the steps to the Apothecarium entrance. He gave nods to his assistants and fellow workers, the undead scientists realizing just exactly where he was going. They returned nods of reverence. He had reached the entranceway to Sylvanas' chamber, her voice echoing deafeningly throughout the corridor. Dreadguards stood nearby, obviously trained to become oblivious to her more "charming" features. They, too, nodded, the formal indirect greeting in the undead capital.

After passing through the winding hall, he saw the queen's furious face first, her elven features intertwined with her dead sheen quite beautiful in the pale greenish gray room. The acidic ooze surrounding her throne room almost seemed to stir with her unstable emotions.

Beside Lady Sylvanas stood her guardian demon, Varimatras, and the temporary orc leader, Nazgrel, the underdog of Thrall. And to the other side of the queen stood an unexpected surprise: Magatha. The old Tauren was a dark-colored variant of the horned bull-creatures, known as the Grimtotem clan. She was a prestigious shaman of the Horde, although her political involvement suggested she was after more than what an ordinary shaman would want. All Laranell knew was that she constantly debated with the Horde over the future of the Tauren, particularly with Cairne, the true leader of the Tauren.

"What do you mean a barrier?!" Sylvanas cried out fiercely.

"It was definitely of spiritual essence," Magatha added, her voice low, yet piercing. "It was unlike any power the Alliance ever had. In fact, I'm starting to believe it wasn't even Draenei magic."

"Even without the barrier, our armies couldn't withstand such abuse from both the front and rear," Nazgrel pointed out. "And even worse, word has it the surprise-attack army was led by a single male Tauren."

"Tauren," Sylvanas muttered, calming only a tiny bit. "Magatha, what is the status on the Tauren? As impermanent warchief, Nazgrel should have had the power to pull Cairne and his people into the fight! If this is betrayal, I swear . . ."

"Excuse me, my lady," interrupted the master apothecary much to his dismay, "but I have most important news that is sure to please you."

"Speak quickly," she demanded, "for a dire moment is at hand!"

"Yes, of course! I came to inform you that the New Plague is near completion. I have tested the weapon on many life-forms and received positive results."

"Excellent," responded Sylvanas, her mood seeming slightly elevated. "That means I can initiate my attack plans on the Scourge, like planned! Varimathras! Retrieve Nathanos Blightcaller for me and order him to assemble his entire army here at once. Morbrin should be arriving fairly soon from his utter failure at Stormwind."

"Not so hasty, Lady Sylvanas," barked Nazgrel. "We still have the humans to worry about. Do not forget, we attacked them back in retribution for their deceptive actions against us! Their deceit, their attack on us after declaring peace, is a cowardly act! And sadly, Eitrigg, whom we sent to discuss 'peace matters', is also likely dead because of those filthy monsters!"

"Then, you shall deal with them," she coldly replied. "My goal is to take out the Scourge! Perhaps if our attack is a major success, which I know it shall, we could lend you our plague."

Laranell swallowing hard, departed, hoping his Plague didn't have any fallouts, for any shortcomings would mean his head.

"Then I shall investigate the matters with Cairne and try my hand at winning the Tauren majority," said Magatha. "I apologize, but I cannot leave the Grimtotem Clan with you here at the moment. That will raise suspicion amongst those of Thunder Bluff. But rest assured, I shall return with the Tauren on my side!"

"Then it is settled," Nazgrel announced. "The Forsaken will exact their vengeance on Arthas' ilk, taking the Scourge off our backs. I shall worry about the bulk of the Alliance, namely the humans, dwarves, and possibly the draenei, while, upon his return, Vol'jin shall deal with the warlock dilemma. The Tauren will have the pleasure of putting the wretched Night Elves to rout should they assist their allies, which by then, Magatha should have a reasonable army to deploy."

"And what of the Blood Elves?" Sylvanas questioned with a tone of curiosity. Nazgrel subsequently rubbed his chin at the thought.

"Hmm, Thrall did mention a loss of contact with them shortly after reclaiming their territory in the Ghostlands. I sense that, alongside Kael'thas in Outland, the Blood Elves feel they will have no need for us here on Azeroth."

"Loathsome mongrels!" cursed Sylvanas. "Have they forgotten who they once were?"

"I shall take a look in the matter myself, in my own way," Magatha volunteered. "However, what worries me most is Thrall."

"What about him?" Nazgrel blurted.

"If he recuperates from his illness too soon, he will regain control of the Horde. He will rather choose a more peaceful approach to the situation at hand and prevent us from the rightful victory we have long deserved!"

"She has a very good point, Nazgrel," Sylvanas agreed.

"Well, what are you suggesting I do about it?" asked Nazgrel, a look of suspicion in his grave, masked eyes.

Laranell, who had been striding back oh-so-slowly to his Apothecarium, had overheard their little conversation, and knew all too well what their next words would be.

"The Royal Apothecary," suggested Magatha.

"Laranell!" cried the banshee queen, as expected.

He hurried back to her side, a look of malignant glee on his face.

"Yes, my dark queen?"

"I have a new important assignment for you," she began. "I need you to concoct a potent disease . . . for orcs."

* * *

-Stormwind, at the Old Town, shortly after the battle.

Dreary was the oncoming evening, dismal and gray. Rain poured down on the vast city of Stormwind that the people had not seen for quite some time. Lightning clashed down and vehemently made a spectacle of the dreadful day. It seemed to mock their victory. Jedo didn't like it.

He rested his battered body at one of the only taverns that remained intact, gazing outside the window at the horrible aftermath of war. It also kept the jolting pain in his left arm constant as he laid eyes upon the broken corpses, the crumbling rubble, the dancing flames as they slowly flickered away. He looked at his barely healing arm. The flesh had been cut open so wide near the shoulder, the healers were thinking of amputation from the left biceps down as a last resort. However, he made a remarkable recovery.

The pain still remained, but merely in stabbing waves; before, it had felt as though someone had amputated the arm off. As soon as Jedo took his eyes off of the wreckage, he got lost into thinking. So many things had gone on in his usually uneventful life so fast, that he had barely any time to dwell on them. First was his father's wishes for him to actually become a Paladin, even after repeatedly being told "no", and then his sudden disappearance after being given a dire assignment, even at the face of Stormwind's destruction. Then, there was that young woman, Scarlet, who was actually a princess . . . and as mysterious as she was beautiful. Of course, he could not for a second forget the demon and its terrifying warning, which pretty much rivaled the unnerving fact that he was able to seriously injure it with just a few swings. Even all the other people he'd met: Arthur, Katherine, Trevor, Strahad, Pala, Benedictus . . . there was something disturbingly familiar about them all.

But one thing was certain. The blade he carried with him had an indirect role with everything. It was almost like if he had never bought the weapon, none of this wouldn't have occurred. Not even the battle . . .

It was crazy. It was impossible. He shook off the thoughts for the moment, feeling stupid for thinking like a mystic. His uncle would have smacked him had he the guts to tell him his flighty thoughts.

Just then, several chain boots clattered loudly on the wooden floorings of the tavern as several figures entered, although Jedo was too oblivious at the moment. He half-expected several knights of the Order of the Silver Hand to come in to congratulate him on his job; after all, he was the son of their absent leader. Or perhaps it had been Chappy looking for him with some rather buffed knights, trying to show off to the people of Stormwind that he took part in battle and won. Whatever the case, he didn't keep his eyes from the booming skies.

"Jedo, isn't it?"

That tone of voice shook him out of his reverie almost abruptly. When he finally turned to face the speaker, he was filled with a strange relief that he couldn't explain.

"Scarlet?"

"I'm flattered you remember my name," she said with a pleasant smile. "How are you feeling?"

Scarlet wore shining, silver armor composed of a breastplate, arm guards, and shin guards. Despite wearing those pieces of armor, she still looked radiant, wearing a tunic as blue as her dark hair. She also wore a matching skirt midway to her thighs, though white leggings covered her fit legs. Her wavy hair was tied behind her, save for several strands that curved along the perfect form of her face. She stood between two tall guards, making her seem so frail. Three other knights stood behind them, and at her gesture dispersed throughout the tavern to sit and relax amongst others. The other two tall knights remained, though.

"What are you doing here?" Jedo asked, ignoring her initial question. His voice seemed charged and elated at her presence.

"Had to take care of some business. Who would have known we'd end up at the same spot? Of course, I had to arrive when war was breaking out." The supposed princess let out a battle-worn sigh. "Pretty much sounds like my kind of luck, anyway. By the way, I was very impressed with the way you handled yourself back there in battle. You've definitely improved over the course of mere days."

"You were in the battle against the Horde?" he questioned, trying to change the subject a bit. Jedo didn't even want to mention his shameful fight with the Defias thieves. Still, he was quite amazed she had that kind of experience.

"Oh, I sure did! Had to earn these people's trust if I wanted to remain here. Even these guys helped save the city as well. Its like second nature to us, I guess." She turned to a familiar elf woman, who in turn just shook her head. "You've already met Laya, if memory serves. And over here is Vincent, my . . . advisor, so to speak."

"It is an honor, good sir," replied the tall blond human.

For a simple man, he was taller or at least as tall as any night elf Jedo had ever seen. Despite his size, he was well-proportioned, having a decent build and even, chiseled facial features. The man looked anywhere from his mid-twenties to late thirties, a broad range. Still, he seemed too old to be the girl's swain. His eyes revealed a sort of . . . feral look to them.

"Lady Scarlet, shouldn't we get going?" the elf urged as usual.

"Yes, I suppose we should. This sudden war has actually delayed me long enough. Hey, Jedo, if it's alright with you, why don't you tag along with us after our little negotiations are through? We sure could use some able men, plus I'll gladly pay ya."

Jedo brightened up at the invitation. To join the army of a mysterious princess of an unknown land, it seemed like something that came right from the history books. A boyish smile crept on his manly features.

"Well, it's a great offer, but I'll have to decline for the moment. I was suppose to receive Paladin training here until things started to go berserk. I couldn't just abandon them now, after taking the rare offer."

It wasn't until then that Jedo began to think about the archbishop. Pala had told him she was able to contain the demonic creatures within the Stockades, preventing them from leaving and doing unspeakable things in the world above. With spells as infallible as hers, Benedictus could surely be cured from his ailment. He could then only hope he'd become a Paladin. However, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to lose its appeal. It was as if he was becoming another person, but not necessarily in a bad way. He still wasn't comfortable with the feeling that hid inside of him. To become a Paladin was a dream he always held on to. Then, why did he feel he had an even greater obligation?

"I understand," she replied with respect. "It must be very important to you. Jedo, you are a most admirable young man. I really hope once you finish training, you'll think of us."

"You say that as if I knew exactly who you guys were," Jedo replied in amusement. "All you ever told me about yourself was that you were after some jewel-things, and that you were a princess."

"My lady, remember what I told you last time," Laya warned.

"Relax, Laya," Vincent assured, "Scarlet knows what she's doing. Do you remember what happened back at . . ."

"Hold your tongue!" Laya scolded. "Did you already forget our primary goal here? To stay under cover! Watch what you say around these mongers."

"I kinda see what you mean," Scarlet told Jedo. "I will clarify things once we get a hold of our little problems, that I promise you."

Scarlet bowed to Jedo, which sort of made him feel important. He returned the bow, and the trio departed. As Vincent stepped out last, a hooded figure stepped into the tavern, shady and somewhat ominous. Jedo's eyes narrowed as he or she began to take small strides toward him. The hooded person was now only a couple of feet away.

"May I help you?" Jedo asked hesitantly.

"Ah, Jedo, I'm glad it is you," came a very familiar voice. It was indeed Pala.

"Pala . . . ? Is that you?" he asked, but that wasn't the real question he wanted to ask.

"Yes, Jedo, it is I. And I am saddened to say that great misfortune has befallen Stormwind."

"I already know that! What's gotten into you, and why are you covered with a cloak?"

"Check the taverns," shouted a patrol guard outside, "we'll check each and every alleyway! No murderer will get away with such a treacherous act!"

"I am being pursued!" Pala whispered to him with a dire tone. "Who we know as 'Trevor Frohm', Commander of the Alliance, is truly a murderer and a conspirer, and he is putting the blame on me."

"Couldn't we just explain the truth to the guards and the king?" Jedo rationalized, his heart at his throat now.

"Jedo, the king is dead," she said mournfully, "and our last hope is to bring you someplace safe! As far as the populace know, Frohm is their hero. And as for the Horde, we are presumably their foe's benefactors. Confronting any now would be foolish, and if the guards see you with me, they'll think you are a traitor as well! What you must do is hide, Jedo. Hide away from Frohm. Go to Stranglethorn, to the floating isle there. Meet the goblins, they can tell you more."

"What about you?" he asked her, even as the bartenders and others eyed them with mistrust. Panic began to shoot up through Jedo's weakened body.

"Hey, I'll check this tavern," cried out a local guard, who entered inside with his sword unsheathed.

"Don't worry about me. Just go!"

With those last words, Pala uncloaked herself, unveiling her brownish pale fur, her hooves fully exposed. With only a mere leather harness and kodo-hide pants, she stood before the armed man.

"Hey, it's you! I shall spill your blood for the king!"

Pala spread out both hands in front of her, and in an instant, a cold breeze entered the tiny tavern, so icy that it froze over the soldier's feet, holding him in place.

"W-what sorcery is this?" cried out the man hysterically.

The Tauren outcast made for the doorway and vanished into the city streets, chased by the yelling and swearing patrolmen. Jedo could only stand up, weak-legged, and attempt to think of the fastest route out of town. Surprisingly, he no longer questioned the "why's", so much as the "how's". He trusted her, for whatever the reason.

Jedo made his way outside, trying his best to remain as inconspicuous as possible, until he ran into a rather loud goblin.

"Jedo!" Chappy called out from behind him. To further prove just how well Jedo knew the crafty little creature, he noticed him with several guards, just as imagined, who at this point were very vigilant and very armed. "What in blazes is going on? Do you know?"

"No time to explain, lets go."

"Wait, what's the rush?"

Moments later, a soldier signaled the ones chaperoning the tiny goblin "hero". As they dispersed, Jedo took the opportunity to tell him the details.

"So the king is dead? Geez, what a way to end a party! But we can't just let Pala get killed, now can we?"

"What are you planning to do?"

The goblin gave him a wink, accompanied by a toothy goblin grin.

"You seem to be forgetting something, my friend. I'm Ratchet's greatest inventor!"

"But, you can't go out there alone!"

"Nonsense," came a voice nearby. "You're too injured to fight, so we'll take your stead."

Jedo and Chappy were thrilled to see Scarlet, Vincent, Laya, and the soldiers from the bar.

"You'll help us?"

"Hey, we're friends, right?" the princess reassessed.

Without another word, they charged into the street, while Jedo scurried about, calculating their escape. At the same time, Chappy leapt rooftop to rooftop, dousing the streets below in what he like to call "silly dust"; essentially a large capsule filled with feldust, a very thick, noxious material with the tendency to give "added effects". Meanwhile, as Pala made her way down the Trade District, she fought through a crowd of scared-stiff civilians. Still, she stuck out like a soar thumb. Behind her, Scarlet's men pressed back the guards who made it past the feldust fog, giving her the perfect opportunity to escape Frohm's wrath. Statues of Alliance heroes loomed over her like giant stony defenders standing vigil for their people.

However, heavily-armed knights barred her way at the very entrance of the city, forcing her to a complete halt.

"No traitorous Horde will get away with this!" said a well-adorned knight. "I am Lord Arfulus, and I shall not let you pass! You will die terribly for poisoning our beloved king with your sorcery! And to think, I fell for such a pitiful plight. Peace? Bah! I partially blame myself, and for that, I shall kill you myself!"

He took his silver hammer from its strap and held it firmly within seething hands. His eyes seemed calm, yet filled with rage all at once. Pala knew one direct swing from that mallet would ultimately end her life, and so excepting her fate, just stood idly.

"You give up too quick . . . Pala."

It was the voice of a fellow Tauren she knew very well. Could she actually be saved?

"Kolark! What are you doing here?"

From one of the castle wall towers stood Kolark, his red leather giving him away immediately. He jumped down, creating a loud thump that even startled Arfulus.

"I am Kolark, the Tauren that helped defend your city," he stated, facing the commander evenly. "I beseech you, let this poor Tauren go! She is not who you're looking for."

"Oh, really," Arfulus went on, "defend? Don't make me laugh! You probably knew I'd return and thereof went against your own kind, just to spare your own pathetic life from us! But I'll admit, you are a wily bunch."

Kolark loaded his rifle and smiled.

"Then, how 'bout a little friendly gamble? Me, against all you. I'll wager I can stop all you tinheads in just one shot. I miss, then we die. I hit, then we leave. Or is his honorableness too shy to accept such a simple challenge?"

"Ha! I won't fall for your dirty schemes . . ."

BOOM!

At that moment, one large bullet split into a tiny barrage of pellets that ricocheted off their armor and disintegrated into powder. That same powder soon entered every crevice of their suits of armor: their gloves, chest plates, helms, you name it. And within seconds, they were jumping, wiggling and scratching feverishly and futilely at their metal armaments.

"Ah! It itches!" they all cried.

"I . . . can't . . . scratch!" yelled another. Soon, they were all in painless anguish, utterly humiliated in front of their own people as they stripped themselves of their protective suits.

"I win," Kolark said wryly. He charged through, knocking three soldiers off their feet and into the pools that would lead into the moat; some deliberately tumbled into the moat to cleanse themselves of the terrible itch. Pala followed the Tauren bounty hunter closely behind.

"Raise the bridge, you imbeciles!" shouted Arfulus furiously. But none heeded his words, for the itch was even more furious.

In the meantime, Jedo noticed a gap created from the previous battle in one of the walls of the Old Town, one wide enough for his escape. He backtracked to where Scarlet in company waged their own battle, and after getting her attention, managed to lead the motley to the eastern side of the Old Town. Chappy tossed down the silly dust along the way, complicating things for their pursuers. Some of those who were ignorant enough to step through the gas breathed it in and were momentarily polymorphed into sheep.

One visit to the stables along the way perhaps led to their main getaway. Scarlet had her horses waiting patiently for their return, prepped and ready. It seemed to Jedo that she had not been planning on staying long anyhow. He was pulled on by Laya, whose iron grip hoisted him up with one single tug. Chappy hopped onto Vincent's mount, and with graceful gallops, they were through the large-enough gap and outside Stormwind grounds, the vast greenery taking over the gray stony city view. The rain was still as unrelenting as before, giving them somewhat of a perfect cover.

"Hey, there's Pala . . . and another Tauren!" Chappy cried out, pointing to the drawbridge.

"They'll never outrun the guards in time," Laya proclaimed.

Within a few seconds, Pala was no longer a mere Tauren, but a glowing, huge worg, its teeth fully exposed, and its size nearly thrice that of an ordinary wolf. It didn't take long for the other Tauren in red to hop on, and not much longer for the altered Pala to catch up to the rest of them.

"Where do we go?" asked Scarlet, trying her best to speak through the whipping rain.

"South," Jedo answered, "we go south . . . to Stranglethorn."


	9. Plotting of the Wicked

-Chapter 9-

-Somewhere on Outland . . .

The land was a poisoning sight to the weak-hearted. Everything was nearly covered in blighted darkness, giving the young Templar an uninvited feeling of nostalgia. He simply closed his eyes, basking in those moments, knowing he no longer needed to be shut away there. Things were going to change, and from what he observed thus far, every aspect of his plan was going perfectly his way. Well, except for the unexpected assistance he received from a rather desperate denizen of this "Azeroth", in exchange for a simple task. Still, he was so confident, he welcomed this impudent creature's help; it would only speed up the process. In fact, the only thing keeping him and Azeroth apart now was merely time. Yes, in time, all his hard work would see fruition.

At last, he took his gaze away from the window's visage of his citadel, reveling at his own very throne. It wasn't easy gaining the position, but surely enough, he was given extra "privileges" by his supposed master, allowing him access to a vault of luxuries. For one, he learned the wonders of easy transportation via teleportation using the secret arts of the Templars. If that wasn't enough, he slowly gained the trust of his people's grand leader, and also earned several merits for protecting the populace and nobles; that eventually led to his leading a rather enormous army. He was inevitably turning out to be an exulted hero of his nation, which was exactly how he foresaw it to be.

It wasn't like he was completely helpless before that. One could say he had a whole different life until then. He still retained the knowledge from way before, if not better than his old, aging corpse-of-a-body. He felt as if he were younger, felt vibrant and full of life. If time is one's worst enemy, than one must free oneself of that limit, or at least that was the way he looked at things. That, however, was only the prelude of many, many things to come. His old studies proved arduous and nearly consuming, but again, it was well worth the years and effort. So much time had passed thus far, and so much progress attained in regards to the dark arts. His journey to this realm, Outland, stood testimony over that.

"Pardon me, Sir Vuelmont," called an ornately dressed Templar. The commander smiled to himself before turning to the simple officer, the sound of his false name rather amusing to him. He responded as always, as though his true name had always stood as Commander Reyes Vuelmont.

"Speak, Templar," he replied, meeting the officer straight in the eye, "and make it quick."

"Yes, commander! It seems the forces we have kept vigilant over since entering Outland have finally made a move. Our scouts suggest they are heading this way . . . fully armed."

The idea of a skirmish was the last thing on Vuelmont's mind. He simply sighed, shaking his head.

"Well, it can't be helped. If they finally sensed our presence, we must either pathetically commune with them and attempt peace, or slay the creatures."

"But, sir, they are not even human," continued the officer. "Most consist of elf-like creatures, serpent people and what looks like demons. How will we . . ."

Vuelmont's face became distorted with agitation and fury. With one hand, he unleashed a lightning-fast wave of purplish energy that slashed and sliced through the very ground between him and the officer, as if a hot knife swept across a bar of butter. That same crevice emanated a purple hue, and not long after, runes appeared around it. All happening in just seconds, several arms began jutting out from the crack, latching onto the surface as if they had always been there below. It was a dimensional breach, of course. And out came purplish-grey creatures, hot with the fires of the Twisting Nether, as the people of Azeroth called it. Only his demonic servants were of different lineage.

The first to emerge from the portal were a bunch of satyrs, discolored and slightly malformed due to longer exposure to the vicious underworld. However, it wasn't they that startled the officer most. The creatures that pulled themselves up shortly after had certainly outdone the satyrs.

Those humanoids stood seven to twelve feet tall easily, already armed with weaponry from the Netherworld. They were utterly distorted creatures, having large, muscular bodies and arms that stretched to the ground. In their massive grips were mauls best used to bludgeon a small group of foes in one well-aimed swing. Leather straps made from some foul hide covered only its chest and its misshapen, giant forearms; the rest was exposed as grey, sizzling skin. Its face, perhaps the most vile of its body, was a mixture of enigmatic parts, most evidently evil-looking eyes and a messy, toothy mouth. The officer gave Vuelmont a grave look after fearfully marveling at the abominations before him.

"A-are they supposed to be reinforcements?" he asked with a prevalent stutter.

"Why, yes," Vuelmont assured him with sarcasm. "Are they not to your liking?"

"But . . . the Pact of Mortality says . . ."

"That the summoning of demons is strictly prohibited and the caster is subject to death," finished the commander, sounding a bit more irate. "You bore me with all your righteousness. I am sure our Holy One will not debate my actions, as his most loyal subject. Besides, we no longer stand on our land. The laws are subject to change. I will now just assume you did not question the commander of this operation, for your sake."

The officer bowed nervously, apologized, and went onward to continue his duties, undoubtedly fearful, suspicious, and maybe untrusting of their leader. Still, it was Vuelmont's order he was sworn to follow, and he was going to follow it to the letter.

However, in his moment of temporary solitude, he had to think to himself; were the oncoming demons truly the ones ruled by Sargeras, the so-called "Titan"? In his original culture, Sargeras was merely something of myth, far beyond the deities worshiped by the neighbors of his new homeland. Perhaps, when all goes through and his plans uncoil fully will he get the chance to meet this Sargeras. If he was anything similar to the gods of lore his people worshiped, he shouldn't pose too much of a threat. That his demons were approaching for an attack would ultimately mean Sargeras' minions have grown wary of him. Although insignificant, it would not bode well for him to reveal himself so quickly. On that note, he would have to eradicate each and every invader, leaving none alive, or . . .

A wide, fiendish smile crept on the youthful face of the handsome Vuelmont. So long as he stood commander of the entire force, all that came from his lips would be absolute. Things were going to change, and he would make sure of that.

-The new World Tree, Teldrassil. At the capital of the Night Elves, Darnassus. Several hours before the Battle of Stormwind.

Day had slipped away, and at last Elune had blessed the skies. Tyrande Whisperwind had been up all day arguing with Fandral Staghelm, the temporary Archdruid for several years ever since Malfurion's sudden disappearance within the Emerald Dream. Fandral was wise beyond words and more than capable of taking over for the time being. However, Tyrande always feared his great ambition was his one great flaw. He had a way of gaining the people's ears, becoming somewhat of a threat as far as radicals go. Had her beloved Malfurion still been amongst them at that moment, there would be no great plans to recreate the World Tree, or to expand their land like he suggested.

It wasn't that the people feared Malfurion Stormrage. Quite the contrary, he was revered as one of the Night Elves' greatest heroes and leaders, and Tyrande couldn't agree more. Fandral, on the other hand, instilled fear on the people by reminding them of their current mortality since the Battle at Mount Hyjal. It had been some difficult sixteen years without her beloved, especially since she was suppose to be in charge of her brethren. Fandral last quarreled over Tyrande's resolve that the Furbolg were, indeed, capable of being saved. The long-time comrades were long past due for help. For three long years, Tyrande searched for the means to save the elves' friends, and eventually found the answer when Medivh, the mysterious man who joined them with the humans and orcs, had happened upon a worried Tyrande. Before that, she consulted the matter with many of her allies, only she found there was nothing they knew of the dark energies of the Burning Legion. That was particularly not all false, for aside from Malfurion, Tyrande and some of the druids were probably next in line in correlation to that knowledge.

Nonetheless, it so happened that Medivh had a perplexing history, even one in which he was possessed by the mighty Titan himself, Sargeras. Unwitting and completely shocked, Tyrande understood he was responsible for the First War involved with the humans and orcs, and so assumed the possibility that the two events were linked. Immediately upon discussing her predicament, she was told that there was a way to heal her wayward friends, the Furbolgs. Still, he warned her many times that it was an extremely dangerous and risky procedure, even went as far as to question the elves' true relationship with the bear-like natives. Being a protector of the wild, and seeing it as a possible means of abolishing the evil that has been tainting the new World Tree, Tyrande found it only strengthened her resolution; she was to travel to the far south of the Eastern Continents and embark onto a "floating island", as Medivh had put it. He stated that once there, she would figure out what would cure them. He also hinted that it was some sort of plant, so in conjunction to that, she was to bring Firodren Mooncaller, Darnassus' greatest herbalist. Maybe then, with a good bundle of the plant, her best alchemists could concoct a cure for not only the Furbolgs, but all those corrupted by the Burning Legion.

"Priestess, there you are," came a voice from behind her, breaking Tyrande from her reverie.

"Oh, Shandris," she said, sounding mildly startled.

"Did I intrude on your privacy, Priestess?" she asked cautiously.

"No, not at all, I was just thinking. It is a good thing you arrived, for the journey ahead of me shall be a difficult one. What have you to report?"

"What I have to say will intrigue you, indeed," the Elven spy replied. "It seems as though there was a major war recently that took place on one of our ally's homelands, namely Stormwind. The orcs and undead have put aside our moment of incidental ease and used it instead to deliver a heavy blow. I suppose we were not notified as of yet due to distance, but I still find it odd that we were kept in the dark about this, don't you?"

"Hmm, yes, it is strange, just as you said. Call me paranoid, but there has been something about this 'Trevor Frohm' that troubled me from the first day I saw him. As the leader of the Alliance, I feel his work in providing a more permanent peace is only a half-baked plan. I sense there are more shadier aspects to his agenda than meets the eye."

"My very thoughts, Priestess." Tyrande gave her spy and general a grievous look.

"Honestly, Shandris, do you think my leaving for the quest to the uncharted island is a folly one? I never dared leave my people alone during the stirring of a new war. What if the Horde decides to attack our lands in my absence?" Shandris merely responded with light laughter, shaking her head.

"Priestess, you are as overprotective of us as ever. This is something that may befall all life on Kalimdor and Azeroth alike. And you are probably most fit to travel to that land. Should anything befall our sacred groves, the Night Elves have Fandral and I to defend them. We would be more than prepared!"

"That is a relief to hear," Tyrande exhaled. "Still, something more bothers me. You must have not heard because of your reconnaissance assignment, but the druids have been called in to Moonglade without an explanation to anyone. Even the Tauren have gone as well. Do you suppose this has any relevance to Malfurion's disappearing?"

"Possibly. I mean no offense when I say this, but I think I can assume it is something far worse."

"What do you mean?" Tyrande's tone became more stressed.

"I do not think it is something that you should worry about right away, Priestess. But every land that seemed to practice forms of dark arts or shamanism seems to be feeling the effects of its true malevolence. Rumors spread over the people of Stormwind that their land is cursed, that demons have taken up residence in the Stockades. Furthermore, and much more difficult to attain, was information from the orcs. I overheard some of them speaking of their warlocks losing control of their demonic slaves. Lady Tyrande, this seems to be their problem for now, so do not dwell extensively on it."

"Surely, they got what they deserved. However, this must not be ignored, even in my absence. Shandris, I need you to inform Fandral of this. Tell him by my order that he send a messenger to Stormwind and request if they need any assistance."

"Understood."

With the final orders in place, Tyrande gave Shandris Feathermoon a formal salute.

"Please, let my land be in one peace upon my return, general. And may Elune be with you all."

"The Goddess agrees, Priestess, and may your journey be a safe one."

Tyrande walked out of the Temple of the Moon, meeting with her trusted white tiger mount, Ash'alah. As she entered the Temple Gardens, she caught sight of her, the majestic black stripes and the shining coat making her seem so superior to all the others. She had gone through the worst of moments with her, as she recalled several recent events. When she arrived, the cat became ecstatic. Tyrande stroked her forehead, the feline purring quite intently at her return. The stable master, Alassin, smiled at the sight of the two.

"Awe, you two remind me of me and my hippogryph!" she said amiably.

"Have you seen Firodren, the herbalist? He should've been here by now."

"Yes, actually, he was looking for a book he let an apprentice borrow. He said he wouldn't keep you waiting for too long."

Tyrande sighed heavily. It seemed the weight of the mission was slowly becoming less bearable. She wanted badly to get it over with. As she absently patted Ash'alah, she began to think of where exactly Malfurion might be. He was said to have gotten lost within the Emerald Dream, which, according to many from the Cenarian Circle, has recently seen corruption. A very scary thought it was indeed. It was considered by many as the blueprints of Azeroth. Should anything happen to the blueprints, the design would ultimately suffer. But her faith fell entirely on her love; if anyone could fix such a disaster, it was he. Who knew, maybe she could speak with Alexstrasza about the current-

Her thoughts were cut right off as two scouts of the Sentinels hurried over to their leader. Even before they said a word, the Priestess of Elune felt something horribly wrong.

"Priestess! It's horrible!" blurted out one of the sentries.

"We've called in the others, and Shandris has already gathered the others," reassured the other.

"What is it?" Tyrande asked with as much patience as she could apply.

"A group of satyrs managed to sneak onto Teldrassil somehow, which we are still debating exactly . . ."

"It cannot just be that," the Priestess exclaimed, "what else happened?"

"They've used some kind of sorcery to change the surrounding wildlife into monstrosities! All of Shadowglen fell within hours! We hurried here as fast as we could, but the infestation grows with every second we waste."

"Then it is settled," Tyrande stated, holding her anxieties inside her; a good leader must realize that by panicking, his or her people follow suit. Instead, she maintained a positive demeanor and unsheathed her bow while climbing on her loyal tiger.

"Let us move onward! Deyash nek'tai ser'noth!"

She gave her final order, the elves moving swiftly in the cover of darkness. Tyrande feared what was happening, especially after talk of all that has gone on in Azeroth. What was really going on? And was she already too late in saving the wilds?

-Western Plaguelands, at a Forsaken camp near Felstone Fields.

"Let us attack!" called out Sylvanas, her voice spectral and very unelven in the thick of the battle. The moment of vengeance had finally arrived, and the dreaded Lich King would feel her suffering at long last. This time, her people would be the ones butchering his, not the other way around. And what better way to watch their glorious defeat than to be there at the battlefront? She found her emotions reaching a manic peak as she commanded her men to push back the wretched Scourge. The incredible New Plague given to her by the Royal Apothecary team was doing exactly as she had hoped. It obliterated the irritating Scarlet Crusade's human forces with just seconds of inhaling it, and she eventually converted their dead bodies into her loyal servants. Likewise, the Scourge were also freed from the lich's horrible control when the plague entered their ruptured bodies; while the plague killed the humans, it temporarily incapacitated the already undead, ultimately rendering them weak enough to be subjugated by the dark queen. It was still a grueling task, using all her mental strength to fight off the struggling lich's. Still, it was a battle leaning towards Sylvanas' people, and one she intended to fully win.

"Release the plague!" Sylvanas commanded, her voice filled with a satisfying fervor.

And when I finally get to Arthas, I'll make him wish he was truly dead!

She had often fantasized on the many different ways she could finish the beast off, but she figured she would get creative once he'd gone through enough torture. After all, the longer the war, the longer his despair.

Victory seemed so near. She watched as her men relentlessly tore the Scourge forces to pieces. She reveled at the sight of her abominations rending mindless zombies and Nerubians to shreds. She found glee as her meat wagons stored away the bodies of many, to be reused as latter forces. The winning battle wouldn't even ease the pain, but it was at least pleasurable for the moment.

The queen concentrated harder, forcing all her mental energies to keep her new forces hers and hers alone. They obeyed. Sylvanas' forces seemed to outnumber theirs' ten to none at that point, gaining her access to the last of the Western Plaguelands. The remaining few mindless Scourge scurried off into the darkness, fleeing as their cowardly king commanded. With a modest smile, she planned on savoring her victory celebrations when she captured the vast Eastern Plaguelands for herself, a festival that would last for hours, with Arthas' head propped bloodily on a spear for all to see. However, that would be after an even longer battle, but one she was willing to embark on regardless.

Everything seemed to go accordingly until her head began to feel like it was placed in a vice. She screamed in extreme pain, but fought off the unusual sensation within seconds. The pain was a familiar one.

"Are you alright, my queen?" asked Nathanos Blightcaller, her most honored general.

"Yes, do not worry about me," she said vilely. "It seems a powerful entity is approaching, hoping to reclaim his lost fighters by assisting Arthas. Do not let our people falter! Push the attack!"

"Of course, my Dark Lady."

And so they did, edging toward the border of Thondoril River in the east. Across it stood many more Scourge, fervently awaiting to be ordered by their leader. When Sylvanas saw who commanded them, she felt her irrational emotions rise again. Kel'Thuzad, the lich who had saved Arthas from certain death the last time she attempted assassination, was ordering the wretches from Naxxramas. Sylvanas would make sure he would die beautifully at her feet.

"Pardon me, my queen," came Blightcaller from amidst the battlefield, "but several Scarlet Crusaders have made their way from the monastery and plan to take us from behind! Your orders?"

The Dark Lady only grinned, her face seeming less pale. As if she couldn't have asked for something better.

"Do not worry, Nathanos. It looks like fresh troops will be arriving shortly."

Tyrande's eyes widened as she took in the horror fully. Shadowglen was completely devastated, the once natural landscape and glory lost to monstrosities. Corrupted treants walked among the wilds, slaughtering the defenseless wildlife at will. Furbolgs joined them as well, using their once benevolent magic to harm the land. Gremlin creatures swarmed around the destruction, taking pleasure at the loss of life. And behind them all were the monstrous satyrs.

"You despicable heathens! You will die today for your sins!"

Tyrande's words did little to halt their desecration. She brought forth her quickly-assembled army and made way for the foul creatures that stood in their path.

The forests themself were turned into vile creations, an unusual ability for satyrs to have, yet just like them to attempt such treachery. The trees were varying colors, appearing exotically malevolent. They bore unusual fruit of the same kind, a pinkish, pear-shaped object that seemed to emanate a distinct odor. Different chimaeric appendages were mutated from the trees, varying from long, sharp needles to mouth-like openings.

"Priestess, look!" called out one of her archers.

The sight finished all sights. In the opening, where the corrupted creatures of the forest awaited, stood the satyrs with wide, devilish grins, holding the citizens of Shadowglen.

"No!" Tyrande called out, watching the tied-up night elves' expressions as a satyr chanted something demonic.

It was too late when the Sentinels reached the monster; the elves seemed to implode, their innards flowing freely as if their skins were made of liquid. And in the midst of the sacrifice came forth demons, monsters holding enigmatic weapons of sorts, bearing horrible insignias, and bearing the skulls of past tortured souls. Tyrande ordered her troops to hold.

"How could you? By Elune, the elves swear death to all your kind for this . . . sacrilege!"

"Silence, Priestess," came the voice of an elderly lady from somewhere in the forest. The speaker unveiled herself, making her way in front of the demons. "And who are you to subject my people by your selfish ideals?"

The woman was human-size, and indeed old. The robes she wore suggested she was a crone of some sort, obviously associated with the demons. She snickered heinously, her eyes hidden under her hood.

"Who are you, foul crone?" Tyrande demanded more than asked.

"Why, I am the new ruler of Shadowglen, I suppose," she mocked. Again, she burst into laughter.

Without any warning, Tyrande drew an arrow from her quiver and plucked her bow, all in one swift second. Just as fast, one of the satyrs incinerated the projectile, sending ashes at the sorceress' feet.

"Foolish girl," spat the old crone, this time more seriously, "if you think you can kill us that easily, you are in for a rude awakening."

The demons, at that moment, charged forward, commanding the befouled creatures of nature at the elves. Tyrande gave the order, and, with heavy hearts, the Sentinels slew the forest critters effortlessly. However, it was the demons that posed the highest threat. Huntresses rode their panthers onward to the field of battle, using their mighty glaives to cleave the monsters. They fell as quickly as the critter had. The demons seemed like the merciless doomguards in appearance, but in combat, they far surpassed them. They handled axes of enormous length and size, which they swung easily; any other creature would have had a hard time. Their axes made quick work out of the few melee fighters at Tyrande's disposal, forcing the Sentinels into a retreating position.

"Head back, let them gain their ground!" Tyrande yelled. "Just keep firing! They'll fall just as we . . ."

Before the Priestess could continue, the Sentinels found themselves immobilized. The ground started to ooze, the very soil beneath their supple limbs giving way. Struggling to wade out of the ooze, the elves were soon giving in to panic.

"W-what is this?" Tyrande whispered, her lips quivering. For the first time since arriving, she truly felt fear grip her. The demonic monsters, still high in numbers, lurched toward their hapless prey, drooling in lust for their blood.

"To arms!" shouted someone whose voice was a clear signal of help; Shandris commanded a militia nearly as big as her own. And beside her was Naria Shadowmoon, a trusted lieutenant under Tyrande's command. However, Fandral did send the rest of the army in, too. With all their help, the demons could be driven back!

"Fire back!" shouted the Priestess, and the unmoving force obeyed, firing arrow after arrow even as they remained trapped. Tyrande, herself, began chanting to Elune, using her full force of power to down the mighty army.

Friendly forces came from the forest, from the hills, from Tyrande's left and right side, surrounding the demons on each side save for the north, where Shadowglen lay in ruins. They chose not to retreat to their destruction, and instead fought head on. The trees, too, fought off the elves, chomping the sentries from the waist up and devouring them, flesh and bones. They swung spiky, club-like branch limbs that crushed skulls and utterly destroyed their balistas. It was unfortunate to even think it, but the armies were mowed down by a third by the time the reached Tyrande.

The Priestess was capable of killing off the villains that were nearest, but soon, she felt her energy wane, her body collapsing atop of her beloved tiger.

"I . . . must . . . not . . . give in!"

She caught one last glimpse of the old crone in the background, casting a spell that was slowly draining her of her vitality. Turning to her left, she saw more elves dies horribly at the hand of satyrs, winged demons and other shadowy creatures, amongst them being her great lieutenant, Naria. She was impaled by an enormous spear, then kicked down onto the ground ruthlessly. Others soon followed suit. With those sights weakening her, Tyrande finally passed out cold, only hearing the death cries of nearby elven warriors.

"If you seek vengeance, oh mighty priestess, then seek me out," the old crone whispered in her mind. "I am Zeda, and I shall await you in Felwood, on the remains of your outpost in Talonbranch Glade!"

"Pri . . . stess! Wake . . . please! Don't . . ."

"She . . . be dead! . . . must live!"

Each word she heard soon after was fleeting, as if she had been placed into a hollow, dark room, by herself and completely powerless. But soon enough, her eyes were opening, unveiling to her the lustrous moonlight. And before her was Shandris' worried face, along with other Sentinels. Was it all a dream? She prayed to Elune that it was, but the next statement told her she was still in her nightmare.

"Priestess Tyrande! I'm so glad you're alive!"

"Shandris," she replied feebly, "are the demons destroyed?"

The look that was given to her was one that concerned her greatly. "No, not truly," Shandris admitted, "but they did depart through some portal. They could have posed a major threat to the capital, but . . ."

"How . . . how many of our sisters were . . ."

At that point, tears began to stream down the Priestess' cheeks as she got up and surveyed the remains of Shadowglen and the forests throughout. All was razed.

"We . . . were forced to burn down the forest, my mistress," Shandris told her sadly. "We had no choice; they were corrupt and filled with evil."

"I fully understand," Tyrande said meekly. "We must report this at once."

The rest of the surviving sentinels nodded, trying just as their distraught leader had, to remain strong. Many had died this day, and Tyrande would see to it that this "Zeda" pay.


	10. Bright Futures and Dark Pasts

-Chapter 10-

-After traversing the rugged terrain to the south and surviving the jungles of Stranglethorn, Jedo and company finally arrive at their destination . . .

It had been challenging enough, but their ordeal was almost at its end. Booty Bay was just several strides away from the campsite the now-branded outlaws set up. It had not been easy to travel for those few days with limited supplies and food, which seemed to disappear at a rate not proportionate to their group, not to mention the space; Scarlet's camp equipment was not intended for a group of over twenty, which was a slightly different number from what they had when including just Scarlet's original forces. And with the way the tauren "merchant" in red ate, it seemed they'd sooner starve before reaching this mystical isle. However, they were incredibly lucky. For only a few miserable days, which could have easily been weeks, they had to combat wild animals, unfamiliar diseases, several rogue trolls, the blazing heat, and, like the icing on top of a cake, they had to evade Frohm's forces, who had followed them as far as the Blasted Lands before deciding to fall back. It had been stressful on the whole lot, but somehow they managed it.

Stranglethorn was as treacherous as it was remarkably beautiful. Because most of the land was in a constant tug-of-war between Alliance and Horde forces, it was a dangerous place for humans(and tauren) to travel through. Booty Bay, though, was a somewhat neutral and relaxed hot spot for both factions- but was owned by goblins and crawling with mercenary wretches. However, this made it a perfect place to ask for the assistance the band of outlaws needed. After all, there was no other true way to get to that floating island than to fly there, and goblins seemed to know this method best. They all suspected the coincidence was intentional, but goblins were reliable . . . well, as long as their clients had some gold on them.

It was also relatively easy to figure out who would be their representative in the pirate-infested town: Chappy. Being a goblin, Chappy would avoid most of the prejudices the others would face there. Plus, there were likely mercenaries lurking about who were on the lookout for the infamous murderers of Stormwind's king. Word spread quickly about how they already had a hefty price on their heads.

According to Pala's intuition, a renowned goblin should currently be on his vacation stay here in Booty Bay, someone who she deemed would "sweeten the deal" for them when compared to most goblins. And so far to the surprise of the group, it was Pala's sharp premonitions that helped guide them to where they were that day.

"So, what's for dinner?" asked Kolark with such carefree naivety, the others could only stare back dumbly.

"Pretty soon you if you do not cease your babbling!" Laya scolded.

"I wouldn't argue with that," Vincent added placidly, earning him a stiff look from the tauren.

"Calm down, people," Scarlet intervened, "once Chappy gets us the proper connections, we'll be-"

"Everyone, quiet down!" came a swift whisper from Bernard, the group's scout. He rustled out from the tall grass, bearing a startled look. "There are Lodisian soldiers heading past this way! They're most likely heading to Booty Bay. If we remain silent enough, they'll journey right next to us without even knowing we were ever here."

"Lodisian?" whispered Jedo in confusion.

"I'll explain later," Scarlet said in the same low tone.

Soon enough, the clatter of steel armor and strange voices edged their tiny camp, and just as quick it began to fade. Kolark shook his head, his red leather armor gleaming in the barely-lit campfire.

"Those are the same lame soldiers whose behinds I kicked, aren't they?" he asked Scarlet after taking a peek.

"You mean the lame soldiers we barely escaped from?" she corrected with a slight touch of humor. "Yes, they are. They are somewhat skilled, but they lack the intellect my men possess. Thanks to all my loyal knights, and Kolark, I managed to evade them for what seemed like forever."

"Scarlet," Jedo began, "I kind of hoped you would tell me who you truly are, finally. Where is your home, and who are these 'Lodisians'?"

Those were all questions Scarlet had seemed to avoid for quite some time, and ones that had long needed answers. She closed her eyes and smiled, then turned to her strict guard, Laya. The elf merely kept her gaze away from the princess, knowing it was inevitable.

"Well, if it really matters to you."

Everyone seemed mesmerized by the princess' conversation, even her own men, the group gathering around except for Pala, who had been meditating. Kolark had kept an open ear, but chose to sit facing the sea, leaning his broad back against his tent.

"My home is very distant," she began, "and cannot be found anywhere on Azeroth."

"So, you're not from this world?" Jedo ascertained with amazement.

"Precisely."

There were blank stares from everyone, of course except for Scarlet and her people. Even Kolark seemed to have fallen off his reclined position.

"Does it surprise you that much?" Scarlet said after giggling. She didn't seem so uncomfortable after all. "I mean, you humans are friends with some outworlders yourselves. Have you forgotten about the Draenei?"

"Well, I've never personally known one," Jedo replied, "but they just seem like a totally different race. You and your people look exactly like us, though."

"We were surprised about that, too," the princess said with wonder. "But when we began to study your world's history, to allow us to blend a little as well as to adapt, we discovered that there was some faint connection between my world and yours. If we knew what it was, we wouldn't have turned into such drifters, which ties in with our goal. However, my world is startlingly similar to yours; we have the same life forms, for the most part. We don't seem to have the many sentient beings we see here, but the humans, dragons, undead, and others begin to hint at something. We don't have demons walking on our plane the way you all do, though, at one point we did.

"As for those men who have pursued us relentlessly, they are from Lodis. They are ruthless and overambitious, always conquering and expanding their enormous empire. They have long been at war with many lands, including my nation . . . Palatinus."

"So you are the princess of Palatinus?" Jedo said with a frown. "Sounds like your world's situation is no different from mine. My father is a general in the army of Stormwind, and he is always talking about some war with the Alliance's enemy, the Horde."

"General of Stormwind, huh?" Scarlet muttered. "Anyway, yes. There is always conflict on our world as well. This is one thing that links our worlds. However, I've been thinking greatly on the subject and came up with a very sensible solution; there's one very important aspect our worlds share."

The others just awaited patiently, grasping at her last words.

"Hey guys!" came a raspy voice, one that caused them all to groan in frustration.

"Chappy, back already?" Jedo asked, hoping to hear some good results.

"Yep," he nodded, his head nearly falling off, "and boy, do I have news for you!"

"Did you find this 'Gazlowe'?" Scarlet asked, standing up with great anticipation.

"I did better than that," he said enthusiastically. "I got him to come along, no extra charge!"

Behind the small green guy was yet another one, except he was larger, gruffer, and a bit older. He wore the same smirk and those sleazy goblin eyes. Gazlowe, the world-renowned engineer, was just who they needed to get them to the island, lickety-split.

"Hey kids," he saluted with a deeper-set voice than Chappy's, "heard you needed help from the best engineer. Well, look no further! I can have you on Serenity Island in no time at all."

"Serenity Island?" Jedo whispered under his breath. Chappy just shrugged, a confused look on his feeble features.

"Well, there's more," said Scarlet, whose face became filled with concern and much doubt.

"We're being pursued," finished Pala, who had apparently awoken from her rested state and overheard them talking. "We need for you to do us a great favor."

"Well, as a goblin always says, where there's a favor, there's a price," Gazlowe said with a businesslike savvy. "But, my friend here says you are in a tough bind. So, I will do something a goblin has never done before; I'll put off all debts entirely."

"You mean it's 'free', don't ya?" asked Kolark.

"Uh, that word doesn't exist in our business language," Chappy added bluntly.

"At any rate, ya'll just have to follow me to our Jaguero Island Zeppelin Pad," Gazlowe said proudly. It was quite the miracle, but it seemed not all goblins meant to extract money from clients, especially those being chased by other clients. Little did the group know that the missing supplies and food was Chappy's "peace offering" to the goblins of Booty Bay.

* * *

-Plaguewoods . . . outskirts of Naxxramas and Stratholme.

Sylvanas' goal was upon completion. Her forces had ultimately overrun the lich, Kel'Thuzad's, forces in a battle of sheer numbers. She managed to blow back his mindless troops, while at the same time distorting his control over them. Her new plague worked wonders, but her only fear was that the Lich King Ner'Zhul, the creator of the original plague and now one with Arthas, would find a means to counteract her newly formed one. That meant she had to act fast. When she finally breached the outpost past the river near Terrordale, she found the way to Naxxramas nothing but a mere stroll through the park, which could only mean they fled to their capital to stage a final showdown. Now, Sylvanas was at a crucial point in her quest that would inevitably mean the difference between victory and utter defeat.

Once she and Nathanos met at the encampment in the Plaguewoods, she would discuss with him her plan to destroy Stratholme. The banshee queen figured that by taking out the Scourge-infested village, it would eliminate any means of immediate reinforcements to the capital. And besides holding an element of surprise, it also meant fresh troops for her, since many Scarlet Crusader idiots still fought for control of the land. The plan seemed a worthy one.

"My queen, I have returned," came a withered voice. Surely enough, it was Nathanos Blightcaller, riding his undead stead. He was every bit as equivalent to the lich king's Death Knights, if not stronger. He was an expert swordsman, a potent spell caster, and an even more skilled leader. Sylvanas had always placed her trust on her general during trying times.

"Excellent," she responded with little emotion detectable. "Now we can speak about the next part of my campaign . . ."

Night had fallen on the diseased plaguelands, although ash and smoke constantly made it seem so. It was now the Forsaken's move, the moment to turn the tides of the battle. With Sylvanas and Nathanos leading the way, the army of undead made their way to the devastated human town known as Stratholme. The place was still in shambles, apparently frozen in constant war. One side was "controlled" by the Scarlet mongrels, and the rest, by the Scourge. The town was eerily quiet, much to the Dark Lady's discontent. She expected to walk into the midst of a grueling battle, imagined her meat wagons catapulting her plague right between the warring two sides. However, there were no humans and no Scourge.

"My scouts told me they noticed the Scarlet Crusaders marching on the town," Nathanos announced, sounding perplexed himself. "And Scourge activities haven't dissipated yet."

"I sense something most foul," she said almost to herself, at the same time halting her forces.

"Dark Lady!" came a lieutenant from her ranks, a banshee. "We're being followed by humans from the south. And several more are coming from the north. It's an ambush by the Scarlet Crusaders!"

"What?" the queen cried out in shock. "A two-sided ambush. This is a most cowardly, if not reckless, attack. They've gotten very desperate. Nathanos, I want you to engage those on our tail. I'll hold off the oncoming forces. Damn, I won't have enough meat wagons to deploy the plague, not if I have to divide them. This is going to be a decisive battle."

"Take the meat wagons, my queen," he said with much honor, "for I shall battle those despicable men without the aid of the plague. Do not fear for me."

"Very well," his queen sighed, "hold them off long enough, and retreat if things go bad. I want you back in one piece, is that understood?"

Blightcaller heeded her words in an instant, bowing quickly and heading for his mount. This fight would most definitely lose her more troops. It was now a matter of infecting as many humans as they could.

"The Scourge have arrived!" called out a Forsaken warrior in the frontlines, the filthy Scourge puppets emerging from every crevice of Stratholme buildings and alleyways just as he alerted the others. A few ill-fated Forsaken were immediately cut down by several skeleton warriors, signaling the arrival of necromancers. It seemed either Kel'Thuzad had gotten incredibly lucky, or he actually was wary enough of such an attack. Either way, she was fortunate in her choice to place the attack on Stratholme and not Naxxramas, where the attack strategy would have been an utter disaster. Still, she found herself in a real tight situation. She'd either have to fight off the two armies at once, suffering tons of casualties in the process, or swallow her pride and retreat.

"Damn them!" Sylvanas yelled in frustration. "We cannot take them all! We shall have to pull back and lose our ground!"

Forsaken undead scurried back to the outer edge of the plague woods upon the order of the banshee, their only hope now for the Scourge and humans of the north to meet and wage war amongst themselves. If that was so, only those humans in the south would have to be disposed of, and then they could decide on either fully retreating or pushing on through. Still, both forces intended on slaying Sylvanas' men. It would get extremely ugly if all three armies were to fight. The undead queen assembled her troops as quickly as she could, time running short, her new goal being to elaborate on their next hopes.

"Listen to me, Forsaken!" she called to her men. "Nathanos is busy fighting those fools from the south. Because of this, we cannot retreat to our encampment, and traversing through the winding woods that lay adjacent to our base would only get a bulk of our fighting force lost. This leaves us only one choice. We must stand our ground! We must show them that neither human nor Scourge can compare to the might, sorrow, and valor of the Forsaken! Rally our meat wagons, set the plague! We are going to take Stratholme no matter what it takes!"

Filled with a renewed sense of worth and reason, the genocidal Forsaken raised their weapons in a display of honor and fury. Sylvanas, just as eager to shed the blood of both inferior races, began aligning her troops: meat wagons, of course the essential unit, remained behind the frontlines, protected by shadow priests. Warriors and other priests remained on the fronts where they'd inflict the highest amount of damage. Spell casters consisting mainly of banshees and specters remained farthest from the fronts, supporting and destroying amidst the shadows. Unfortunately, her warlocks were currently still missing, so this was as far as she could afford. The newly-spawned troops she gained control of through the plague were brought back to camps for immediate re-training, which took less than a day because of their past experience in their old lives. This made production easier and more efficient; quite simply, they had the advantage in combat. Even as she led her fighters into the fray, her rogue scouts were investigating other matters, such as searching for strayed troop members who'd been separated during the fight, friend and foe alike. This allowed a further tactical advantage as battle continued to escalate. One last thing was clear; as long as she held the plague, none could best her equally.

Sylvanas wore a grim smile as she witnessed the foolish humans attacking the Scourge. She was right about them assuming all undead were one. Complete fools.

"I couldn't help overhear your invigorating words," a cool, collective voice sounded through the woods behind the emboldened Forsaken. All warriors turned to the very woods that separated them from their camp, a vast stretch of trees and darkness.

"Who dares spy on the Forsaken?" asked Sylvanas with more interest than defiance. Had it been more men for the battle, she would have easily forgiven them. However, the chances were extremely low. After she spoke, a human figure glided toward her.

"You are the legendary Sylvanas Windrunner, the banshee queen, are you not?" he asked, unmasking his face and features from the dark. He wore a wide grin on his human-elven face. He had pointed ears and wore a vestment that resembled that of a nobleman, complete with neck-tight frills. His skin was smooth and gray, very much dead like Sylvanas' army. He did, indeed, glide, for he wasn't human nor elf.

"Who wants to know? Who, or rather, what are you?" Sylvanas had her bow slightly raised toward the odd man, ready at any moment to shoot him down if he so much as breathed wrong.

"I am Lestat, the undead. I am a vestigial race from a land far away. My race, the vampires, share a culture with some of your land's more . . . infamous species, making our survival rate here incredibly low. Rest assured, I am an undead like yourself, and those loathsome humans and 'Scourge' have mercilessly slaughtered my people since our arrival through the portal. My people, also undead, will gladly lend you the final strength you need to defeat both of your persistent foes."

"I see, an interesting story," Sylvanas considered. "Well, we do need help. And your story seems plausible, for the moment. I accept your assistance. How far are your forces?"

A larger smile crept on Lestat's relatively fine features. His smooth, slicked-back hair began to waver as he floated high above the trees of the forest and began laughing as if Sylvanas had said something amusing. In the wooded area behind him, there was movement. Eyes could be seen shining through the blackness of night. Mournful sounds could be heard within the thick fog. Sylvanas knew, now.

"Haha, my dear Sylvanas! I am the ruler of the night, and the sole king of the undead of my old world! My brethren are everywhere!"

Sylvanas was beginning to regain the confidence she had at the start of the one-sided war. She nodded briskly and spoke even swifter.

"Fine then. I want you to give the Crusaders to the north a surprise attack. Take them from behind, and they'll fall like mice as they'll be forced to divide their attention between you and the Scourge. Meanwhile, as the humans lose their men, and the Scourge push them away, I shall lead my own forces onto that very battlefield, reclaiming that many more fresh units through my engineered plague. Understood?"

"A most sound plan," Lestat replied. "However, what of those from the south? Your men there will not last against for long."

"Their goal is to stall them as long as they could. They shall retreat when survival is deemed impossible, thus we must act quickly! Our actions must intertwine with Blightcaller's."

With no further words, the vampire suddenly became an agile bat who fluttered away to some other distant woods. Sylvanas had to assume he had an army amassed throughout the Plaguelands. If this was true, Naxxramas would be hers in a living heartbeat. Meanwhile, the undead queen led her men into hiding until the time was right.

The moments flew by, and just as she had anticipated, the Scourge were making short work of the overzealous bastards. The fools had followed her men, thinking they were undead from Stratholme. Now they would have to pay for their deadly mistake. Sylvanas' only regret at that point was allowing the Lich King even more recruits. Soon enough, though, she'd get her share. Following closely, yet, safely behind, the Forsaken watched as the frail, outnumbered humans attempted a retreat. It was a bittersweet sight. Still, their moment of victory was merely at hand.

"Let us show them how Forsaken battle!" cried the Dark Lady.

With the last of the Scarlet Crusaders making their escape, Lestat's forces suddenly materialized through the forested curtains, their sheer numbers horrifying the humans into a state of hysteria. They didn't last even minutes. The undead Lestat controlled were very similar to the Forsaken. They wore the same armor, cast the same spells. However, there were also reanimated skeletons, enigmatic wraiths, and hooded creatures similar to the average lich, all which bore a faint resemblance to the Scourge. Using battle axes and arcane spells from the nether, the otherworldly undead quickly made their way toward the marauding Scourge, who were oblivious to Lestat's terrifying numbers. Just before the mindless creatures could reach the vampire's undead, a barrage of arrows and fiery spells hit them from behind as Sylvanas led her people against the Scourge. Repeating the siege strategy, the Scourge began to fall just as easily as the humans had, only they had a stronghold to tactically retreat to; Stratholme. Lestat ordered his ghostly men to hover over and vanquish the slow Abominations, further hindering the opposition of hard-hitting fighters. For the same intents and purposes, he commanded his spell-casting lich to silence the necromancers as his skeletons took care of them for good. It took them less than thirty minutes to force the lich-controlled undead to head back into the haven that was Stratholme.

"I want this town burnt to ground once and for all!" Sylvanas' spectral voice sounded through the battle. At that order, mages began to cast fireballs and immense flame waves at the worn and long-since razed buildings of the first Scourge-wrecked town. Houses fell easily beneath heavy axes and swords. Old wood burned quickly and easily, weakened by earlier fires. Meanwhile, those led by Lestat followed the Scourge renegades further within, finishing the last waves as Sylvanas used her plague to reclaim additional troops. Stratholme was falling to the ground, and the necropolis known as Naxxramas, her next target, was about to be hers at last.

"My queen," a battle-weary Nathanos said from somewhere behind. Sylvanas turned to him immediately, hoping to hear good news from the southern skirmish. "The humans have made for a retreat. I've already ordered our men at camp to stay fully alert and to destroy any interlopers that stray too close. It looks like we are victorious by some miracle."

"We cannot rest yet, Nathanos," yet she replied coldly. "With our forces having the upper hand, I want us to complete what we came here to do. Send a messenger to the Wetlands, quickly. That is where the nearest orc outpost was built for Nazgrel's campaign against the humans. I want to fortify the plaguelands by the time we reach Naxxramas at dawn."

"But . . . my queen, how can you be so certain we'll have the fighting power to defeat the lich, Kel'Thuzad? If anything, we should use the orcs against him, then worry about fortifications."

"My dear Nathanos, I appreciate your advice, but it seems things have turned in our favor while you thwarted the Scarlet forces. We have new comrades, now. Ones that I believe will make all the difference in this war."

* * *

The flight via zeppelin had been a quick one, much to the content of the others. Off the coast of Jaguero Isle, the renegade band bore witness to one of the most amazing things they'd ever seen. The island seemed an optical illusion, nothing more. However, when they actually landed there, just as the zeppelin hit the flight pad, they were dumbstruck by the beauty and awe it emitted. The island was, in short, a paradise. It remained hovering, according to Gazlowe, because of several devices his workers fused within the outlying rocky bottom of the majestic continent.

"How did you come across this place," Scarlet asked the goblin in disbelief, "and what possessed you to raise it from the ocean bed?"

"Well, a client paid us to do so," he replied with a sly look, "but the rest is completely confidential."

"Nothing too extraordinary, if you ask me," snorted Kolark with crossed arms.

"You mean a whole unexplored continent floating in the sky doesn't surprise you?" Jedo questioned the bounty hunter.

"Not in the least . . . wait, are those cactus apples? I love cactus apples! This place isn't half bad after all!"

As the half-starved Tauren began to feast away, the others took in the lush environment. It was quite jungle-like on the island, except many varieties of vegetation grew on it from various lands with different climates, such as the desert-grown cacti. The soil beneath their feet was plush and moist, and many different kinds of creatures scuttled about or flew abroad. It was filled with mysterious sights, odd scents, and exotic sounds. Nonetheless, they would have to assume it was also filled with equal the amount of danger. On that note, Pala advised the group to unload all their things and set up a more permanent settlement. After an ample time of exploring and searching for the right spot, they were well at home.

"This seems to be the roomiest and safest of places to settle in," Scarlet told Pala and Jedo. "Shall we get started?"

Thanks to Scarlet's deep pockets, they were able to hire several goblins to construct modern buildings made of wood and stone, just enough to accommodate all of them. With the aid of overworked goblin architects, goblin shredders, and Gazlowe, the place was practically complete by nightfall. Everyone was taking long-deserved rests within their new confines except for Pala, who was outside by a bonfire thinking to herself. Meanwhile, Jedo and Scarlet spoke quietly next to the arching fifteen-foot "command base", which they liked to poke jokes at.

"So, there's a connection between us both, huh?" Jedo said absent-mindedly.

"Yeah, apparently so," replied the princess, "or else we wouldn't be here talking to each other, would we?"

"Right. By the way, what were you gonna say, you know, about that link you thought our worlds had?"

"Oh, that's right. I forgot all about that. Well, it has to do with an old folklore my mother used to always tell me. Promise me you won't laugh when I say this, okay?"

"Of course, I promise," Jedo said with an amiable smile.

"Okay, well, the way it goes is that there was this one great entity, one that thought it would be great to design a whole world with its own creatures and inhabitants with their own destinies. Her name was Berthe. But then, Berthe decided it would get awfully lonely without another similar one. Because of the similarity, both worlds and its inhabitants weren't lonely, but war soon began to wage over minor differences, so the way between them given to them by the great entity was closed. Thus, tragically, each world was forgotten to each one. But, here's what I've concluded from the story and Azeroth. The link I spoke of before came in the evil that was spawned from this great war, the demons. They are the link. Or rather, evil is.

"In my world, there was this horrible war we called the Ogre Battle. On the day of the war, demonic creatures attacked our homeland for control. Their savage, damned world was no longer of interest to them. However, they were fought off and driven back to their dark home, in a place you people call the 'Twisting Nether'. Ogre Battle is inevitable, constantly a threat to my people. It is like here, with your people. Evil, and monsters possessing evil, shall always cause war and pain. After the second Ogre Battle, my people have learned humans, too, are capable of harboring this evil, what we call the Infernal Aura, which explains why Ogre Battle shall always be omnipresent."

" . . . Wow."

"Yeah, yeah, pretty stupid, huh?"

"No, not at all," Jedo replied immediately, captivated by her thoughts. "It makes a whole lot of sense. One could say we have our own 'Ogre Battle'. It strongly reminds me of these legends we have of the Titans. But, what I want to know is, why is it called that when the war involves demons? Ogres aren't demons . . . are they?"

"Well, in our world, the demons seemed to have taken a liking to ogres, recruiting them onto their amassing armies after full corruption, or so legends say. They aren't the same, though, as the ones on your world. They are much stronger and brighter than the ones I've encountered here."

"You've really done lots of research on Azeroth, Scarlet," Jedo said, lost in fascination. "I'll take it those gems you were after in Northshire were some way to get you back home, right?"

"How did you know?" she asked in amusement.

"Heh, you just told me."

"Nice guess, and yes, you are correct. Laya and Vincent told me of a legend they uncovered on one of the ruins on this world. It talks of a way to leave this world."

"If you're stranded on this world, how did you get here to begin with?"

"By accident, actually. Long story, but we found this strange portal, and our land was massacred by Lodis. To top it off, the king, my father, was slain. Laya and Vincent . . . insisted that I escape before the Lodisians could kill me. I was against it, but stuff happens, I guess."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry."

"Thanks, Jedo. But I'm long over that. Magnus Gallant was the greatest ruler Palatinus ever knew. And I was to succeed him. But I couldn't even save my own people from Lodis' rule. I've failed them."

There was a prolonged silence, one that made the two uneasy. Luckily, Scarlet wasn't nearly as upset as Jedo had imagined her to.

"How's about we see what Pala is doing?" Jedo asked with a bright look on his face. He stood up and offered Scarlet his hand, lifting her up with one muscular arm. The pair made it to the bonfire just in time, for the tauren shaman had finished her meditation.

"You two seem to be carrying yourselves well," Pala teased, smiling even as her eyes remained closed. The two only blushed, smiling like little children. "Well, you both came right on time. I've received another vision, one that could set us off in the right foot."

"That's good," Scarlet said wearily, "because I had no clue how to start off. Wanted by the Alliance, hated by the Horde . . . we're nearly trapped, kept safe only until they find us up here somehow."

"Don't worry about that," Pala reassured, "for Gazlowe and I have discussed those matters clearly. His people will not allow any foreigners up here so long as we help him slowly excavate the continent for him, which will in turn help us in many ways. What we need to concentrate on now is the matter at hand, and that includes the demonic uprising."

"What can we possibly do?" Jedo asked, his demoralized tone catching Pala's attention. "The entire world seems to practically hate us since Frohm framed you for the king's death."

"Well, my friends, that's what I've been also pondering about," she replied with a simple smile. "There's actually two things I feel we should do that could turn the tide for us. However, we would have to steel ourselves for where it will take us."

"We've nothing to lose," Scarlet chimed in.

"She's right," Jedo agreed.

"Alright, then. Accomplishing these two feats will take all the courage you can scrounge, so listen carefully. I have recently prophesized of an incredible person, a military tactician, who would save us from the raging fires of war. I still do not know her name, but she is trustworthy, I believe. She is being held in a prison off the coast of Menethil Harbor. Fort Watertight is Frohm's most well-hidden and well-defended prison island, holding some of his most dangerous adversaries who are moments away from execution. We may not be able to save them all, but we need to at least try for this woman. She may be the one who can guide us into the direction of peace."

"Why is she so dangerous to Frohm?" Jedo asked out of curiosity.

"As far as my dreams could tell, Frohm used her for some time as a military advisor, but as she came to realize what a tyrant he truly was, she simply turned her back on him. She intended to remove him from power by helping King Anduin, but the king was too far into Frohm's hand. She was eventually stopped, incarcerated, and deemed a 'dangerous thinker' by the puppet council."

"Oh, I guess we weren't the only ones to suspect him," the dark-haired boy replied.

"Pala," Scarlet spoke next, "you said Fort Watertight was the prison with the highest security, right? Well, we shouldn't waste any time, then. My men and I can take that operation."

"No, this is a job for Jedo," Pala suggested.

"Why Jedo?"

"I need you, Scarlet, to use your diplomatic expertise for something equally as important. And because I am still considered a member of the Horde and you are human, you are our only hope for this."

"What must I do?" Scarlet enquired.

"There is one group who is technically Alliance by default, but does not share the exact same loyalty as one. On Theramore Isle, a sorceress named Jaina Proudmoore reigns over the people there. Some say she even negotiates with Thrall, the Horde war chief, from time to time. A veteran of the war at Mt. Hyjal against the legendary demon, Archimonde, she would never stand by and watch demons threaten our world. If we tell her of the impending doom we may face against the demons, we might actually persuade her into helping us. That's where you come in Scarlet."

The young princess lowered her head, her face appearing slightly saddened.

"I don't know if I can do this. I'm not the diplomatic type . . ."

"Nonsense," Pala scowled for a moment, "you may need more political practice, but you have Laya and Vincent by your side. Now, are you both up for it? You two may be our only hope."

"I'll assist the little guy," Kolark's voice came from somewhere nearby. When he finally came into view, he shook his head saying, "There's no way he can get through that fort, not even with a group of men. You need a tauren with ya for that kind of a thing."

"Are you sure about that?" Jedo asked, unsure of the idea of tip-toeing around with a tauren at his side.

"Definitely. I'm a bounty- . . . er, was a bouncer at another prison . . . about four years ago, yeah. For the Horde, of course. I know my way around places like that."

"Then it's settled," Pala said. "Somewhere over the horizon, there's a bright future for us. Come dawn, let us prove our mettle."

* * *

-That same night . . . Orgrimmar, Horde capital . . .

"Chieftain Nazgrel, our base camps at the northern and eastern Wetlands have swept away most of the opposition there."

Those words given to him by his scout had raised no form of response. Nazgrel was too filled with anger and hatred. But it was his duty to see that the humans pay for the countless innocent lives they've taken, even after the pact at Mt. Hyjal. He knew deep down that by doing so, he would free the orcs furthermore from threats once and for all. At last, they could finally bask in glorious light instead of those filthy human scum. It was incredibly rough and was not made without sacrifice, but the orcs had at least rid themselves of their curse; the humans had no purpose but to higher their own self-worth. As long as he remained in Thrall's place, his goal would see fruition. Even his long-felt remorse for leaving Thrall in a coma had begun to cease, and now it was only a matter of militarily dealing with the Alliance.

"Chieftain . . . there is also other news," the scout added carefully.

"Well, what is it?"

"It's Eitrigg. He was found in northern Loch Modan, just by the dam."

"What? Is he okay?"

"He was mildly injured, had only a small portion of those he accompanied him. The savage humans must have ambushed him, but our brother orc managed to escape their clutches!"

This was a most relieving find. Nazgrel knew that after the deception of the humans Eitrigg would be most vulnerable. It was the perfect situation, indeed. With Eitrigg having no choice but to give his venerable support, morale would rise into a fervor in which the human colonies would perish under. Meanwhile, however, Vol'jin, Skychaser, and that strange red-haired girl were finding a means of reviving the ill-stricken leader of the Horde. They worked to no end at finding a cure, and although the red-haired human seemed quite irritable about it, they hadn't turned their back since. That meant he was running out of time. If he could set the stage up, at least, Thrall would be given no other choice but to assist his brethren. Still, Thrall was quite cunning when it came to peace negotiations. Nazgrel didn't doubt that the Warchief would attempt to put an end to war rather than settle it out his way.

It wasn't until after his final thoughts that Nazgrel noticed the orc Stone Guard peering at him from a distance, obviously wanting his attention. His expression was stern.

"Lok Tar. What is it?"

"Nazgrel," began the guard, speaking low as to not alert anyone else, "there seems to be something . . . amiss. It involves the one human and the tauren. Perhaps even Vol'jin."

"Oh? Do tell."

The orc guard signaled Thrall's advisor to follow, and so he did. Led off to the very room he constantly avoided, they waited just outside Thrall's Chambers, listening carefully to the whispers of a few. Nazgrel felt his heart race, imagining the diligent three found out about the Forsaken's engineered disease. Guilt took a firm grip on him for those several seconds.

". . . but, I wonder how he will take it?"

"He be a strong leader. Thrall be finding a way out of war the minute he wakes up."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I just wish the day would pass already."

"We all feel the same way, Menara."

The spying orc tapped Nazgrel on the shoulder, taking his attention away from Thrall's saviors. He wore a sly look, one Nazgrel never suspected from a guard of his calibur.

"They spoke about it nearly for a whole hour. They will ruin everything for you, Warchief, if you don't do something quick . . . Warchief?"

"Who are you?"

The guard eyed him warily, shaking his head. "What do you mean, 'who are you?'"

"Exactly what I asked you! Are you from the remnants of the Burning Blade? No. A member from that group couldn't have snuck in. Ever since the warlocks were imprisoned, our security was on its highest alert. Tell me who you really are, if you want to live."

The orc knew Nazgrel was adamant on his order, especially when his hand was placed on his weapon. Even under the wolf helm, he could see the orc's resolve, something that saddened him. Nevertheless, the orc-in-guise could only smile at his own folly. In a blur of a moment, the orc became a slim, muscular form. He appeared human, with the exception that his skin was an unnatural purplish color. He had dull, yellow eyes that glowed constantly and looked as maniacal as his wide grin. Hair spiked up stiffly was a dark purple, almost black. And he wore foreign armor that left most of his body exposed. He stood tall, nearly two feet higher than Nazgrel. The orc shaman was surprised, but did not seem daunted in the least.

"My name would be too difficult for an inferior creature such as yourself to pronounce, so just call me Exarthalos."

Nazgrel sneered at the odd humanoid, fearing a vile conspiracy at hand.

"So, you can shape-shift? And you think sneaking into our capital is nothing to worry about? You must be a foreigner of some sort! Otherwise, you would have known those sort of things can instantly get you killed!"

"Please, hold your hostility and save them for your opposition. I am here to help you. With Thrall awakening in just a day or so, you have no time to lose. Victory is at hand!"

"Just what are you suggesting? You have some miracle plan that can defeat the humans?!"

"Calm yourself . . . Nazgrel. You have the power right within your veins. You feared it long ago because you could not control it. That is because those that gave it to you were hoping to take hold of your kind."

"You're talking about the pact with Mannoroth! You're insane!"

"Mannoroth is dead. My mistress, Lady Zeda, is deviating from Sargeras, the one who pulled all the strings behind your people's enslavement. How would it feel to be the true savior of your people, instead of that pacifist, Thrall? How would you like to save your suffering brethren in days, rather than years? We can help you only because we share a similar history. Think about it."

"And the price? I will be blunt with you; I don't trust you or your so-called mistress."

"You don't have to trust us so easily. Just meet with us in Felwood as soon as you can. We will unveil your connection with Lady Zeda and show you the way to victory. If you must win a war, you must use every power available to you at your disposal, and we are that power. So long as you fight this war to win, we shall be there to support you. Even if you decline our offer, we shall support your cause from the shadows. Your victory is our victory. Now, I must be off. There are others just like you who need our help, others you know well."


	11. Fateful Decisions

-Chapter 11-

Time was slipping away steadily, time that was too precious to waste. Prince Kael'thas, now officially King Sunstrider of the Sunfury as per his people, made haste with what scribble of a plan he had left. Things were beginning to crumble, and quick. With Illidan's madness rising and the blood mage's hunger for power never ceasing, it was he who would truly fall into a pit of forgotten ashes. But he still had one tiny flame of hope left.

When the transgressors arrived on Outland without warning, Illidan immediately took note and was outraged. Of course, the Master was mentally devastated after his utter defeat at the hands of Arthas on Icecrown. His latest command? Send in the blood elves to pull a full-frontal attack on some blundering fools, no questions asked. By the time they were all but minced meat, the Naga would reinforce them; basically suicide. It was true Kael had plotted Illidan's betrayal for quite some time, especially after the Icecrown incident. After all, his people needed a way to end their curse of magical lust instead of teasing themselves with the powers of the Naaru. However, too many things had happened at once, thwarting any and all efforts the young prince had. Now, it was different. He would not lead his brethren on a suicide mission to justify absolutely nothing. And if these intruders were truly members of the Legion, as Illidan proposed, it would not bode well at all for Kael. It was rumored that the blood elves' king had "switched paymasters" and joined the Burning Legion. That kind of talk was quite distant from the truth. However, he did have his own demons to combat with.

"King Sunstrider," came a spellbreaker among the higher ranks. "We've arrived at Nagrand at last. Are we to follow Illidan's orders to the letter?"

Kael'thas gave the officer an expectant look, noting the disillusioned soldiers expression. The blood mage shook his head, looking up at his supposed destination. Twighlight Ridge, where the opposition's fortress stood boldly, was where a most gruesome battle were to be waged. The fort, however, seemed nothing more than a human-crafted citadel. However, several Illidari rogues told their master they spotted demons patrolling the area. Kael pondered a bit longer.

" . . . No. No, we will not follow Illidan's appalling orders!"

"But, my liege, the Master will surely punish us," replied the officer, although turning their backs on Illidan was what they all wanted at this point.

"I have a plan. Gather your forces back to Tempest Keep! My forces shall meet you their soon."

"What shall I tell the emissaries of Lord Illidan?"

A rueful smile played across Kael's princely features, his long blond hair blowing in the Outland winds. It had been some time since he felt such ardor flow within him. Perhaps this was his fate, their fate. With a rush of doubt and, yet, thrill surging through his very veins, Kael spoke outright.

"Then destroy the bridge."

"Pardon, sire?"

"Should the Illidari make their way to Tempest Keep, destroy the bridge that leads them to our citadel. Ready all of our defenses and towers. Give the order that King Sunstrider forbids anyone but the blood elves from entering our home. Deal with any hostiles accordingly."

"What about you, milord?"

"By the time I return, I shall lead us back to our home. I, in the meantime, will find us a way to reclaim Silvermoon to its former glory, therefore clearing all pacts. Now, go."

Dumbstruck, the blood elf soon bowed and did as he was told. The bulk of his people marched back to Netherstorm, where his Tempest Keep floated unendingly above nothingness. He dug through his garments and grasped a shining vial, an item that never slipped away from his center of thoughts. He had suffered long enough, the same as his fellow blood elves. The time was now. He had a plan brewing. And the water within the vial would play the biggest part in this plan.

"Prince Kael'thas!" came a shrilling voice from behind. Kael and the remainder of his forces turned to see the sea witch, Lady Vashj, and a band of slithering Naga. She stood on her serpentine tail, her six arms all to her side, but with her bow out and ready. She glared at him with glowing eyes, her snake-infested hair hissing at the same time.

"Lady Vashj, we just returned from battle! They had known of our plan to attack all along. Leaving us with such meager forces, we are forced to retreat already."

"Do not try to fool me, Kael'thas! I saw the mass of your men retreating back to Tempest Keep. There was no preemptive attack on your people. Now, I demand you tell me why you disobey our Master's orders." The blood mage sighed, appearing hopeless himself. However, this could end differently, or so he thought.

"Illidan is mad, Vashj! He is sending us against a militia of people we don't even know! My people have suffered enough, and to wage war? I think that is too much."

"Kael'thas, has not Lord Illidan given you what your people wanted? Has he not given you a source in which to quench your thirst for magic?"

"It's nonsense! Unless we can find a way to eliminate this curse for good, my people will never be at peace! Even I have been driven near madness because of it. But . . . what about you, Vashj?"

"What about me?" she spat back with scorn.

"What has Illidan promised you and your people? Did he swear to give you the same solution that would only lead you in a vicious circle? Did he promise to undo your people's suffering . . . ?"

"Just what are you getting at, Prince Kael'thas?" she once again questioned, this time raising her bow slightly.

"I'm talking about our future, Vashj! The future of our people. With our 'Master' now insane, only death and suffering is in store for us. Doesn't this sound familiar?"

"You state a good point, young prince, but . . ."

"Now we have our chance! I have a plan that can save us from the rule of any tyrant. We can free my people! We can raise your kingdom from the watery depths and join as one! We can show Azeroth that we do not need to flee to solve our problems!"

" . . . You . . . are right. But I shall not forsake Lord Illidan for an idealistic thought! I shall remain neutral. I shall not order my people against yours. But at the same time, I will not join you until you can prove to me that your little plan has potential. Only then shall I assist you on that grand scheme."

"Good enough. Lady Vashj, I will show you that if we work toward the good of our people, we can bring change to our future. And one last thing; it's King Sunstrider."

* * *

-The morning after establishing a base camp . . . Serenity Island.

"Good morning," greeted Pala, who in turn was greeted with tired faces and a rather grumpy tauren.

"Why so early?" grumbled Kolark. "I got any job done later during the day."

"Well, we have no time to waste." Pala then added, "First off, I would like to state that we have word from Stormwind."

"And?" Scarlet chimed in, eager to hear her response.

"Archbishop Benedictus is alive and well, and he supports our cause entirely."

"What? That's great news!" Jedo had feared the worst for the archbishop since what had happened beneath the city. But to hear that he even supported them was twice the relief.

"Yes, indeed," Pala asserted. "He suggested that there was a strong connection between Frohm and the demonic presence in the Stockades. And, he even went as far as to say 'whichever side Jedo chooses must be of high caliber.'"

"How did you find this out?" Scarlet asked with a curious tone.

"We have a spy working for us. Remember Strahad, the man who backed me up during the attack? It seems he's taken a liking toward us and our position. He thinks we have what it takes to help Stormwind. And so he remained in the city to act as our eyes during these stressful moments, just as the archbishop shall. As for the archbishop's revival, I developed a spell that would cure him of that wretched curse. It wasn't easy, but I was diligent. I also wrote it onto a spell scroll for Strahad to read off. He was the only person I could rely on to successfully cast the cure on the archbishop."

"Amazing," said Jedo, "so all this time . . ."

"Yes," Pala said with a pleasant grin, "telepathic conversations work wonders! Now, on to more pressing matters. We must now begin our prison break strategy.

"Yeah, I was thinking," Kolark intruded on the conversation. "Why don't we use my Goblin Blaster and blow a hole into the wall, dash in, and get that chick out?"

"Um, did you eat too many cactus apples?" Scarlet's question incited the crankiness of the tauren.

"Well, I'd like to hear some better plan, miss hotshot!"

"Try sneaking into the compound, moving unseen, rescuing the dame, and quickly getting out."

"Bah! Same thing," the tauren grumbled.

"Lets begin," Pala instructed. "First off, we will need to figure out in which path do we arrive from. Although it is certain the goblins would allow us to use their zeppelins, the harbor is nearly surrounded by Alliance territory. There's no doubt we'll run into the famed dwarven gryphon-riders."

"Hmm, you're right," Scarlet agreed. "There's no way we're going through the western route. We'd have to cross over Stormwind. And even if we take to the sea, I hear Stormwind has a decent aerial division."

"We could sail along the eastern coast, then make a sharp turn west through the Wetlands," suggested Jedo. "We could touch Menethil Harbor from the north and go from there." Pala shook her head sullenly.

"Not quite. The woman would likely be dead by the time we made it around the continent. But, you are on to something there. I am not a tactician, but we can barely make it on time if we cut through the Valley of Kings and sneak into the Wetlands. There, we could do what you suggested, Jedo, only faster."

"Are you crazy, woman?" It was Kolark protesting this time. "Searing gorge is bad enough, but to outline Dun Morogh, the Dwarf homeland?! Those gryphon-riders were known for taking down dragons! We're dead if they spot us."

"Not with me around!" shrilled a goblin from behind. "How did everyone just forget about waking up the genius goblin? I am your savior, you know."

"How so, Chappy?" Scarlet replied with a grin. Everyone else seemed as inquisitive as the princess.

"Well, I've managed to perfect my one-and-only Sly Cannon! This defensive weapon will send any gryphon-whatchamacallit teleporting miles away in seconds, with a half day charge rate only! And thanks to yours truly, the zeppelin you are all boarding is equipped with five, not two or three, five! Get your additionals while supplies last!"

"Nice sales pitch!" Jedo commented.

"Really? Why, thank you!"

"That's good news, but I should add that today is King Anduin Wrynn's royal funeral," Pala added in a low tone. "Alliance security will be high, so please be extra careful. Meanwhile, Scarlet and I shall try thinking of a perfect diplomatic solution that will convince Lady Jaina of our cause. Now hurry off, and may the spirits guide you."

They were already halfway through their perilous journey to the great Fort Watertight, taking off shortly after a brief pause at the outer edge of Grim Batol. The skies were clear with only a few powdery clouds in the distance, nothing more. With such luck, they would be free of detection for another hour or so. While the risk of danger was apparent, the area once inhabited by orcs and dragons long ago, Jedo and his batch of men were taking in the war-ravaged lands with sudden awe. He knew that Azeroth was a savage world torn apart by constant warfare, but seeing the aftermath of the battles with his own eyes was heartfelt and scarring to the mind. Even Jedo's teammates onboard who Scarlet handpicked herself could not believe the thoroughness of the destruction. They could only stare down from atop the zeppelin with wide eyes.

"This brings back memories of the attack on Winnea . . ." one of the men clad in light armor spoke out.

"Yeah, it sure does," replied one soldier in heavier, well-fitted armor, "but you gotta admit, Wentinus took the biggest blow, especially with the townsfolk." Jedo could only stare at the older men as they kept on reminiscing about their homeland.

"Oh, that's right, this boy here doesn't know two flying gryphons about Palatinus," said a man in leather armor. He gave Jedo a snicker, looking out over the land below in a dreamlike state. "Boy, you would have loved it back at home. The land was more beautiful than this, the skies were majestic, the women were gorgeous."

"If you ask me, things are a little too much alike on our worlds," Jedo added. "Scarlet told me lots of things that sounded like things you'd find here."

"Well, he does have a point," laughed the man in light armor.

"Kamrik, don't take the boy's side!" joked the man in heavier armor. "Just what world are you from?"

"Ha! Troi actually has a sense of humor!" cried out the man in leather armor, the laughter intensifying.

"Troi, Kamrik, Gunther!" came a feminine, yet commandeering voice. "If Aisha heard you all now, she would be ashamed! As far as I can tell, you are all on duty, plus you have a cadet amongst yourselves."

"O-Oh, sorry, Katreda," called out Kamrik, his youthful face filled with apologetic fear.

"It won't happen again," Gunther promised.

"Relax!" It was Troi playing the laid-back attitude, one to Katreda's dismay. "It's Katreda! She's probably only kidding!"

Jedo noticed the blonde, pretty lady turn red with frustration, but before he could even open his mouth, she already had hers open. "Troi, get to the bottom deck and set up our supplies and gear, and I'm not kidding at all! The room had better be spotless by the time I get back down there."

Troi swallowed hard, forgetting just how fierce Katreda was when she was on active duty. "Yes, sir, er, ma'am . . ."

"I believe we've met already, if briskly. I'm Katreda Birall, the one in charge of this operation. Don't mind these amateurs. They are good for morale, though." Katreda wore light, yet protective armor, probably meant for maneuverability, indicating she was likely an excellent swordsman. She appeared to be a knight, though her braided, golden hair and light-hearted blue eyes would detest to that. Still, she seemed to be determined as a leader.

"Yeah, be careful," Gunther said in a serious tone, "she's not as delicate as she looks."

"I've heard much about you, Jedo," she continued. "You are brave to have entered the Stockades, and then journey off to some heavily-guarded prison. I admire you."

"Well, I should've been a paladin by now . . . I guess it's only natural." At Jedo's reply, Katreda only smiled.

"Don't get discouraged! You want to know what I was before becoming a paladin myself? I was a simple cleric, not even a priest! My father never wanted me to get involved in the armed forces, but had I remained with my father's decision, I wouldn't be here fulfilling my duty to protect the princess."

"Wow, you're an ambitious woman-um, paladin." Katreda giggled at his attempt to appease her, shaking her head. She then went down below deck to deal with Troi, who at that point was arranging supplies to his disappointment.

"Don't worry about her," Gunther said to Jedo as he brandished his short bow and arrows. "She'll soften right up once she gets to know you. Of course, she didn't seem to have anything negative to say about you anyway."

"You guys make her seem so . . . scary," said Jedo confusedly.

"Well, she obviously didn't train you!" Kamrik called out.

"Bah! She only joined the armed forces to stay close to Troi!" Gunther snickered at his own statement, feeling satisfied at knowing a little more than he led on. Jedo remained silent, feeling slightly out of place.

"Well, either way, she could-"

Whatever Kamrik was about to say was cut off shortly after by a very loud, very annoying scream. The sound came from the front deck, which the three immediately dashed for. Upon entering the captain's cabin, they beheld two goblins appearing completely frantic. Gunther stepped forward, trying to see just what it was that had them scrambling about, while Kamrik tried his hand at understanding the green little creatures, which didn't go too well. Meanwhile, Jedo was off for the bottom deck.

"Hey," Gunther shouted, stepping out of the cabin, "where do you think you're going?"

"If they saw enemies, we had better get the defense system going," Jedo stated. "What do you see?"

"Nothing, yet."

Jedo nodded, and, just before reaching the stairs to the lower cabins, was stopped short by Katreda and an anxious Troi. The former cleric gave Jedo her own look of concern, yet hers was more resolute.

"What's going on?" she asked, knowing something was wrong.

BOOM!

The entire zeppelin rocked back and forth to the tackle of a very strong foe. Trying to regain balance, Jedo replied as quickly as he could. "We don't know, but we have to alert Chappy and get the cannons ready."

"Already did," Katreda responded. Gunther then appeared, bow in hand, bearing a worried look. It was likely what they feared most.

"Lady Katreda, it's the gryphon-riders of Ironforge!"

Katreda bit her lower lip for just a few seconds, and was then cut off from her next words when one of the very gryphon-riding dwarves let out a war cry right beside the rails in which they stood by.

"Ah! Xadek's boy! You're the dirty bunch who brain-washed his boy and killed His Majesty of Stormwind."

At that moment, they had their weapons unsheathed and prepared for combat, except with the gryphon aloft, only Gunther, by right, could attack. He swiftly and deftly drew an arrow at lightning speed, firing it with almost the same equal as an elf. However, the gryphon was far too agile, dodging the projectile with ease as the dwarf laughed hardily at the archer's folly.

"To the front deck, Troi! They need defense!" At Katreda's order, the mighty Troi, donned with heavy, bronze-plated armor and a large spear, hurried over to the goblin's cabin. "Gunther, I want you to stay hidden behind the cabin, attacking when you can. Jedo and I will concentrate on guarding the rear."

After the orders were given, they heard the Sly Cannons fire once, twice, thrice. Of the times, they only managed to hear one dwarf shout out in confusion, and then silence. The cannons were the best defensive weaponry available, sending them miles away in an instant. After another booming shot from the cannon, it was a gryphon squawking confusedly this time, followed by a raspy "whoa" from a stocky, short dwarf. He landed on deck with an audible thud, catching both Katreda and Jedo's attention. They turned to the bearded man, who already had twin-axes out upon fully standing. To their surprise, he tossed one of them, nearly beheading the young commander.

"I'll take his right, you take his left, strike when his flank is exposed," she quickly said, just as the dwarf cried out and charged. When the dwarf's weapon was in reach, he swung horizontally at the "traitorous" boy, forcing Jedo to leap back. The swift, sudden attack, however, was directed mainly for Katreda, the axe jutting downward toward her in full force a second after. The dwarf let out a strained growl as he meant to lay the deathblow that quick, but Katreda had her shield in place within a flash of that single second. She let out a strangled gasp as she stood firmly and took the impact given to the shield. Any ordinary person would have gone flying off the zeppelin with a strike like that, but the girl recovered in a sheer moment.

Nonetheless, the dwarf recovered just as quickly. As Jedo rushed forward, he swung his blade diagonally from left to right, confident that his reach was guaranteed. The bulky dwarf, though small and not so agile, sharply swung left. In one well-timed instant, he parried the sword, knocking Jedo back nearly five feet. With his lack of speed, the dwarf certainly exercised his inhuman strength. With a quick jump, the gryphon-rider still gryphon-less brought his axe up and struck the wooden plank beneath him, rumbling the very flooring his adversaries stood on. The thunder-clap bought him time to jump the rails and land on his nearby comrade's gryphon, realizing he was no match for them without his loyal stead.

"He's getting away!" Katreda shouted, and at that moment, they were literally gone, their smiles disappearing as Chappy's Sly Cannon teleported them somewhere probably in the middle of the ocean. After the two sighed in relief, they had the pleasure of seeing one dwarf plummet off his mount and filled with arrows. Obviously, Gunther's hiding spot was quite a good one. There was a loud shout that sounded like "retreat". In moments, the skies were silent again, save for the humming of the zeppelin's engine. Jedo was afraid to see what damage the dwarves had done to their ship . . . or their comrades.

"Is everyone well?" Katreda cried out, rushing to the front cabin. She first ran into Troi, who had apparently done his job, and well, too, for there were dents on his armor from the infamous Stormhammers the dwarves loved to use. He stood triumphant, although his armor needed fixing and his round shield no longer was a shield.

"Ah! My hero!" the goblin captain shouted out in a tone that suggested he had no other material way to thank him. All seemed well. Kamrik, the younger of the bunch, remained exceptionally healthy, thanks to the fact that he remained the entire time within the safety of the cabin.

"And you call yourself a sword master," Gunther shot at him.

"Hey, it took awhile to understand what they were saying!"

"Pff, in our world, goblins were part of the demonic armies," again Gunther shot back. "They probably want to see us dead."

"Well, this isn't our world," Katreda retorted, "so stop your grumbling. We survived, and that's all that matters."

"Yeah, but those were just scouts; they'll be back, and with reinforcements," Troi added blearily.

"And vengeance," the emerald little captain chimed in, "don't forget vengeance!"

The group pretended not to hear the creature and headed down to their private cabins to prepare for the infiltration plan. If they took any longer, the dwarves would alert Stormwind of their presence and most likely send more men to Fort Watertight. That would prove most impossible for their likes.

The zeppelin made a roundabout turn, dodging Menethil Harbor's line of sight. When they were several miles from the Silverpine coast, the ship came to a full stop.

"All those who care to depart for . . . lemme see . . . Fort Watertight, we've landed!" At the cue from the goblin, the gang headed for the rope ladder that led down onto land. Off in the distance, the fort loomed over craggy rocks, its spotlights patrolling the ground below. Impenetrable, towering fences with barbed protrusions inspired by the orcs lined the perimeter of the prison installation, making it one of the most dangerous-looking places Jedo had ever seen. In addition, guard towers lined the exterior of the prison itself, fully alert to intruders, escapees, and any form of magic. It wasn't only watertight, it was also a deathtrap.

"Jedo, everyone," came a distant voice from somewhere yet nowhere at all, speaking directly to the group. "It is I, Pala. I'm communicating telepathically. Several engineers from Stormwind managed to leak information to Strahad. They said only one prisoner was ever able to escape Fort Watertight since its creation, a man you know all too well."

"Well, who is it?" Troi mentally asked her, assuming it was the only way to respond to her.

"Kolark."

"Huh?"

"What?"

"How did a merchant get stuck in one of the Alliance's best prisons? Did he sell the missing King Wrynn off the blackmarket or something?"

In response to Gunther's comment, Kamrik could only smile. "Ah, the blackmarket. Brings back memories of home."

"A shame you didn't want him coming along with us," Katreda mentally told the tauren shaman. "He could have guided us in just as easily as out."

There was a brief awkward silence. Then, they heard Pala sigh. "Apparently, none of you checked the emergency food compartment below the deck of the zeppelin?"

Yet another odd moment struck the others.

"You mean . . ."

"The entire time . . . ?!"

"We need a new merchant."

* * *

-After desperate contemplation . . . orc base camp, somewhere in Felwood . . .

It was like a calling. Everything Nazgrel hoped to bestow upon his fellow people would have been for nothing. All his plans, all the sacrifices, everything. Nazgrel realized that his plans were more head-first, more quicker, that his leadership would and could bring the Orcish Horde back to its ultimate prime. Thrall would just throw his ideals and ambitions far away, only to enter another slow, painful progression into society. He was too human inside.

Nazgrel did not hate Thrall. No. But he had to follow his heart. Nazgrel needed to choose his own path, not one of an orc with a human heart. Those who would trust in him would follow, and those who doubted him would part. And so he left, not saying a word to Vol'jin or the still-battered Eitrigg. Perhaps once his battles were over, they would see what an impact he made on this orc world. Or maybe they'd shun him away for committing such horrors. Still, it was his choice, and he wouldn't be swayed.

Felwood was where the old crone would be located, according to this "friend" of his. He didn't specify where in Felwood, but he did say she would seek him out. No matter to him; his base camp was well-established. He made sure to save extra provisions for just an occasion. Although he should have been on the Azeroth continent waging war against the humans, the new forces should be just the ticket they needed to finish their bitter rivals. The night, though, was still young. Perhaps after his meeting, he could attempt an attack posthaste.

"Still pondering about matters?" came a slithering voice from the path that led further into some woods.

"Are you this mistress Exarthalos spoke of?" he asked, seemingly undaunted, if not fraught.

"Yes, the name is Zeda, young warrior. I am here to lend you the assistance you need to crush the Alliance once and for all." Zeda, the crone spoken of earlier, was a peculiar creature, not exactly human, or orc, elf, or undead. Her face, for the most part, was veiled behind her violet hood. Her body was carefully draped by a robe that seemed to coil around her thin, wiry shape. It almost seemed as if she floated over the ground, only her robes touching the ground.

"Well . . . ? Where are those forces your lackey spoke of?"

"My dear Nazgrel," the strange lady said with much mirth. "You must remain patient. My people will not obey those who do not hold the proper . . . prerequisites." Nazgrel's eyes began to narrow as she held out something in her hand. The object was pinkish-red, shiny, and round; it was merely a fruit. "In the Twisting Nether is an area that has been blessed. No one except my Dark One and his followers know of this place. It is where we forge our army. There, a large World Tree lies, bearing this fruit, the fruit of the Netherworld. One bite, and the will in your body will take over. Strength will flow through you. The Infernal Aura shall grant you dominance over my men, only they are at your beckoning."

Nazgrel took the fruit in his hand, but hesitated, the small fruit seeming so meaningless. Was this a ploy to poison him, or something? No, it couldn't be, not when his forces stood behind him, ready to hack anything that so much as touched him wrong. He gave her one last look of desperation.

"In order for it to work best, you need think only about the goal at hand. Otherwise, unspeakable things may occur. And do not be stingy; give one to each of your men! The more with the Aura, the stronger you'll become!"

* * *

Tyrande and her forces were just departing Auberdine, the base nearest to Talonbranch Glade, determined to bring the evil woman to justice. Much to the priestess' discontent, it took quite some time before she could muster up those willing to accompany her and, at the same time, get Fandral's approval for it. Shockingly, he allowed it, his longing for Teldrassil's "completetion" temporarily put on the backburner. As for her assignment for helping the Furbolgs, it seemed that too would be placed on the backburner, for something horrible was befalling the world again. First, Malfurion's situation, then the Teldrassil incident, and now the demons run rampant as close to home as possible. It was difficult enough to divide her troops just so Shandris and Fandral could protect Darnassus from harm. If that old crone Zeda wanted to die so badly, though, she'd make sure she had the troops.

Tyrande's scout returned just then, breaking her from her moment of thoughts. The scout, a female rogue with a long bow in hand, reported immediately.

"Priestess, there are demons scattered about our path. Yet, they are highly unorganized and sparse in numbers. Shall we?"

The priestess nodded, feeling a bit unsure about the attack. She already sent an owl back to Darnassus to report what they've done thus far, and she expected one back. However, she could not remain docile anymore; she ordered her troops onward.

"Cut us a path," Tyrande commanded, the night elf archers and warriors easily eradicating the demonic denizens along the way. The demon militia included few satyrs and the occasional doomguard-like monsters. Still, with their numbers greatly reduced since their last encounter, it seemed very few casualties, if any, would be found this battle.

The mighty priestess of Elune finished plunging an arrow on the last filthy satyr when some rustling came from the trees afar. "Wait," she told her brethren, signaling toward the sound. "Meld, my warriors of the night, and approach carefully."

And so they did. They carefully passed through the trees and shrubbery of the mysterious Felwood, seeking out their enemy, until there was a sudden gasp.

"Priestess Tyrande!" called out one elf in a whisper. "Hurry."

"What is it?" When she arrived at the elf's side, she witnessed a horrifically injured night elf, his chest still moving. "He still lives! Hurry, bring over the priests!" Even Tyrande prayed to Elune to keep this man's life whole.

"Waste . . . not . . . your energy on a lowly elf . . . as me." his voice was strengthening a bit, but the wounds were mortal. When the priests arrived at the scene, Tyrande ceased her attempts at healing so that she could speak with the dying elf. The priests alone would be strong enough to recuperate him, after all.

"What happened?" she questioned, her face distorted with concern. "Has Talonbranch Glade already . . ."

"Turn . . . back, Priestess. You are not ready for death . . . yet-"

At that very same moment, an arrow with skulls attached at the end pierced the chest of the elf, straight into his heart. His murderer then fled toward the doomed outpost, obviously leading them there.

"Those mongrels! How many more innocents must die?!"

Tyrande took a moment to control herself, not allowing the demons to build the hatred they thrived on within herself. Instead, she led her troops onward aboard her tigress, Ash'alah, the graceful creature leaping over dead trees and logs with ease. When the clearing was finally within sight, Tyrande strained her eyes, searching for the view that she was so used to seeing. The trees gave them the gift of building rather than always summoning ancients, which were used mainly at war. And although Talonbranch was technically a base, they did contain stone and wood as its foundation.

Talonbranch Glade could always be seen from this distance, yet it wasn't Talonbranch that stood there at all. Odd, yet familiar structures were in the way, filled with many protruding barbs like the orcs'. It was then that she noticed. Behind them were the remains of Talonbranch. The tragic sight created a silent outrage within the normally placid elves. It appeared the wretched orcs desecrated their structures and stole the lumber for their own. Tyrande had to be honest with herself; as much as she disliked the orcs, Thrall was not the type to do such a thing. Someone must have taken power, perhaps Thrall being overthrown. There was always that potential, she imagined. However, she could not allow the defilement they would commence in these woods. The elves had long sought some solution to Felwood, and should her quest on the flying isle prove worthy, their wishes would come true.

Slowly shaking her head, Tyrande turned to her brethren. "Elyana," she called to her next ranking soldier, a huntress mounted on her panther, "begin building a base here as quickly as possible. You'll have no choice but to summon the ancients."

As she finished speaking, she rose her bow to the skies, releasing a glowing arrow that shone all the way up. Runes appeared above the elves, and before they could say another word to each other, from the woods came the wisps. They immediately began to take root as the priestess finalized her chanting.

"I'll be back with the details," she told Elyana. "I cannot say that the news will be good, so make sure our forces are fully equipped for combat by the time I return."

"You take care of yourself, Priestess. Don't worry about us."

Tyrande took off with several of her strongest guards, particularly huntresses armed with glaives and warden rings. With the druids gone, she had very little options as far as diversity in defenders, but the huntresses were just as deft with their bows as they were with their other weapons, making them one of the Sentinels' most valued units. The meager-numbered group halted when they reached close enough to the orc encampment, Tyrande actually hoping to make their presence known. The faster the questioning, the easier the actions. However, the fact that they stood near orc grounds, yet not a single orc stood present, not even a peon, unnerved them at that point. Where were they all? It took at least a few to build these structures. After all, she'd never imagine them to vacate their own base.

"Stay sharp, my sisters," she told them, not needing to say another word.

"Priestess, over there!" called out the huntress on her right, pointing at a shambling figure deep within the orc base. Tyrande suddenly became tense; perhaps it wasn't the orcs, but the demons that massacred the night elf base, just as Zeda had said. That would explain the derelict Horde outpost here. But why build it here to begin with? There were too many questions to ask and too little time to ponder on them. Tyrande ordered Ash'alah forward, the tiger barely striding ahead confidently; it must be the demons, she thought.

"Who treads Kaldorei grounds?" she asked loudly enough. The figure paused, shaking as though he were choking. After it came out of the shadows, she realized he was an orc, shaking with laughter. "Speak, orc!"

"These are our grounds, now, wretch! Felwood is orc territory. I suggest you run back to your trees up north, elf."

"So it was you who razed Talonbranch Glade! Such savagery will not be tolerated. You had better prepare your men, for I shall obliterate you all in Elune's name!"

"I don't think so, elf . . ."

In that same instant, purple flames rose up from his very palms and over the rest of his muscular, armored body. His eyes appeared vivid, his teeth were clenched. He unsheathed a battle axe and put his wolf hood over his head as he roared into the night skies.

"That aura . . . you've consorted with demons! How could you, after your Warchief freed you all from their curse?"

"How could we?" asked the orc, still alone and glowing. "That's a very simple question. We now have the power to end this pitiful war and create a new future for our people! No more trying to make peace with pompous, snotty creatures such as yourself! No more accepting such atrocities from your precious human animals! No more!"

"You are only bringing your own people's downfall! By helping the Burning Legion recuperate, you shall bring us all toward damnation!"

"Burning Legion? Hah! Do not speak such rot, elf! I work solely for the orcs, not some god who wants everything dead!"

"He is correct," came another from amidst the wreckage of Talonbranch, the voice of Zeda. "We work for him, now. No longer shall we be tied to Sargeras' whims! We want our own freedom."

"You!"

Tyrande readied her bow, but could not find herself to pick up a single arrow, for in front of her stood more hostages, presumably from the destroyed outpost. It was the same situation, the helpless elves tied up, ready to be sacrificed just as in Shadowglen. But she couldn't make the same mistake twice.

"I wouldn't try that again . . . Priestess," Zeda warned. "Your people have suffered enough."

"You . . . are right, demon."

In a reluctant act to cease suffering, Tyrande began whispering something very softly, so subtle that Zeda and the orc leader became puzzled. In a bright flash, the demon only stared in awe as the elven prisoners slumped to the ground. Their bodies began to disintegrate into ashes, bright wisps emerging and fading into the shadows of the woods.

"You think you've ended those elves' suffering, but it's only just begun."

At her beckoning, Zeda raised her hands, summoning forth the others. In swarms, orcs and demons joined together from the fel-infested woods behind the base, draped in blood and glowing just as that one orc had. So many met together and created an unimaginably large force, instilling terror within the fewer elves.

"You had better prepare yourself, priestess, for the moment of reckoning has come!" Zeda continued. "No longer shall any other inferior race daunt us as if we were all just a pack of monsters. Fear us and know your place in this world!

"We must warn our brothers and sisters!" Tyrande told her sentinels. The stunned elves nodded firmly despite their current situation, answering the priestess with stalwart confidence.

The demons, meanwhile, took no interest in following them back. What was Zeda up to, controlling orcs like that? Had she actually brainwashed them? No, although given the circumstances of war, Tyrande knew that Thrall would never negotiate with, let alone spare, demons. This must be some ploy by that demon. However, she did learn there were a handful of orcs who worked with the Burning Legion, although Zeda claimed they broke away from Sargeras. Too many thoughts filled the priestess' head in a matter of seconds. Before she even knew it, she was back at her base camp before a band of well-armed warriors and rooted ancients.

"Awaiting your orders," spoke Elyana in response to Tyrande's return. Tyrande merely met eyes with her fellow elf, narrowing her eyes.

"Prepare to attack, for the demons are afoot."

"Demons, not orcs?" Elyana said in shock.

At her words, the elves were quick to respond, moving every which way and gathering quivers and bows and readying their stead. Elyana had already readied her equipment, soon noticing a weary look on Tyrande's features.

"Are you feeling alright, Priestess? If you want, I can take command for awhile. No demon is ever going to attack Kaldorei civilians again after this!"

"No," Tyrande protested, "I have sworn to see this to the end. Indeed, what you say is correct; no longer shall these monsters torment our beloved people! When everyone is ready, we shall surround their encampment and strike relentlessly."

"Yes. I've already sent a sentry owl to call for any nearby mountain giants. Perhaps we should wait until they arrive? After all, their petty camp is merely a third of what ours shall be." Tyrande gave her soldier a grave look.

"Do not be fooled. The orcs' settlement is small, but within the tainted woods of Felwood lie the demons. We must remain vigilant."

Soon after their conversation, something quite bright shone at the horizon where she had taken off to just moments ago. It appeared in their strange fervor, the orcs had lit up torches and prepared for an immediate attack. Such recklessness was misleading, though. Why attack so abruptly, so unorganized? Still, it would be devastating if they reached their still-unripe base; the ancients weren't even completely grown yet. They didn't have their druids to speed up their production, so there would be no other choice but to attack.

The orc numbers weren't too high, she noticed. As they trampled their way over, axes and swords in hand, the ground beneath the slim, nimble elves trembled horribly. Tyrande, in her quick thinking, knew they still had an advantage.

"To the forests, my brothers and sisters! Get as far as you can without being detected. Meld in the darkness and strike unseen at the foe. If we can whittle down their forces now, there would be less of them to fight in the skirmish!"

The elves heeded their bright leader's words, all except Elyana and her troops. Tyrande looked back at them in bewilderment, in a way, knowing what she intended to do.

"Priestess, I shall remain here in case of demon attacks. Concentrate on weakening the orcish army so that my forces can exact revenge! By the time they get to the camp, we'd be holding the fort."

"Elyana, we shall return very shortly to assist! You will not be fighting here alone!"

"Do your part, Priestess," she replied with much valor. "Whatever fate awaits me lays in Elune's hands. Besides, the mountain giants are well on their way by now."

Tyrande knew time was running shorter by each word they exchanged, and so did Elyana. The young huntress gave her another confidant nod, as if reassuring her. Reluctantly, Tyrande led Ash'alah into the cover of the woods. Tyrande needed to stand her ground, and so did her people. Elyana was right. Taking one last deep breath, the Priestess of Elune marched on toward the slaughter of the tainted.

* * *

"This is an outrage!" cried out a most shrilling, icy voice. On the frozen wastelands of Northrend, as north as one could go on Azeroth, sat the disgruntled Lich King. "This is a complete outrage!" he repeated, much to the discontent of his general, the Nerubian, Anub'Arak.

"Oh, mighty Lich King, be patient!" the Nerubian suggested in as much a disquieted tone as a giant insect-like behemoth could.

"Patience?!" he spat, nearly rising from his seat, the Frozen Throne. "Hell, I'll show you patience!"

Yes, Arthas, patience, whispered a calm voice solely in the Lich King's head. I have thought up a solution for the moment, but shall need a buffer of some sort to hold us up until then.

"Ner'zhul," the Lich King replied, no one else hearing it except for the spirited Ner'zhul himself. "I've sensed your workings within myself recently. Is it true . . . yet a new plague?"

Anub'Arak, having seen the merging, already understood what was happening. After Arthas and Ner'zhul combined their consciences together to "recreate" one entity, the physical product was quite evident. However, because Ner'zhul was an elite warlock and Arthas had only acquired his gift recently, both souls clashed more violently than most would have predicted. The result was minor, though. Arthas and Ner'zhul, still known as one, the Lich King, would need a little more time before the single creation could manifest. That didn't mean the Scourge was at a disadvantage. Now, the greatest handler of the dark arts was no longer immobile, and the Death Knight that finished the devastation of the Azeroth continent remained to obliterate yet again.

Incorrect. The only reason Sylvanas can get a stronger grip on our Scourge is because, in essence, she is concentrating all of her energy on absorbing the dark magic in my plague, thus breaking the bond we have to them. Their "plague" acts merely as a magic deterrent, allowing Sylvanas' job to be easier. In that respect, my "new plague" is really the same plague, only with a magic seal on it.

"You are quite cunning," Arthas replied seemingly to himself. "A seal so that wretched elf can no longer meddle in our affairs. So, when can you complete this?"

Just hold off Sylvanas long enough. I shall have it done as quick as my ability can allow.

The Lich King slammed his fist against his pale-colored armrest, fury apparent within his temperament. If the plan were to succeed, that would mean losing his most trusted partner, Kel'thuzad. The sacrifice would be worth it in the long-run. Kel'thuzad wouldn't have it any other way, anyhow.

"Is my lord well again?" Anub'Arak questioned cautiously.

"Do not send the reinforcements," the Lich King commanded. The enormous insect fluttered its clear, glassy wings in astonishment.

"The Nerubians will obey," he replied nonetheless. "And what of us? Shall we await their endeavor of doom upon their arrival to Northrend?"

"Maybe, if you want to perish in a heartbeat," came a voice off in the distance.

"Who dares challenge our might?!" Anub'Arak shrilled, rushing before his king. Out of the shadows stood a vague figure of a man, his cloak flowing in the frozen breeze. Somehow, he got through unnoticed.

"Someone who sensed your king's desire, his ambition."

"Stand aside," the Lich King ordered his Nerubian soldier. "He is either an ally . . . or an utter fool."

"Precisely," stated the man, his face unveiling. "I have a no intention of challenging the King of the Damned. In fact, it is much to my interest that you be victorious in this little war. My agents have already arranged for an advantageous position for you down in the Plaguelands."

His aura is strong! Use him to stall! Use him!

"Care to chat about it in depth?" the mysterious human asked.

"Yes." Yes.

For once in a long while, the Lich King thought in unison, a sign of good things to come. All that mattered was the victory at hand. A wide grin of coldness spread across the tarnished face of the dark king.


	12. Infiltration

-Chapter 12-

"Kolark, what the hell were you thinking?!" Gunther scolded, the ten-foot giant of a tauren oblivious to his words.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he replied, the words muffled by the food stuffed in his mouth. "Come on, cut me some slack! There's nothing to eat at base except cactus apples, which I do honestly enjoy, but a guy like me needs to keep up his weight."

"So you go for the emergency food storage on board our zeppelin?" Katreda asked in an inquisitive tone, her hands on her waist. Ignoring the question, he quickly glanced around.

"Hey, w-where are we?" Kolark quivered slightly as he took in the outside surroundings from a nearby window. He finally left the ship and took in the view of the looming prison he once broke out of. "Not this place again!"

"You never mentioned being imprisoned in one of the Alliance's greatest military jails," Jedo mentioned with much suspicion. "Why would a merchant be that threatening to the Alliance anyway?"

"Um . . ."

It was Katreda who broke in, much to Kolark's dismay. He eased up, though, when he realized she was clueless.

"Well, you see, from what I've read in some of Azeroth's many libraries, Fort Watertight had originally been built to throw away just those ordinary aristocrats who might seem like a threat to running political figures. The fort was first in construction during the second war and completed only months after the war ended. Since then, they realized that the location and geography made it an ideal prison for just about all of the Alliance's enemies, so they modified it into a general one that housed any of the most troublesome of people. These unlucky guys and gals are exterminated, not, of course, before being stripped of their secrets."

"You're one well-informed captain," Jedo said, his eyebrows raised.

"That is why I was chosen to come along, although I can attest Kolark, here, will be of more help."

The tauren turned to see the entire group eying him warily. Apparently, they suspected something about his past, but did they actually know about his true purpose with them? Thinking about it made Kolark realize just how long this plight was taking him. Sylvanas was likely ripping out her ghostly hair by this point, wondering just where in Azeroth he was. She did mention failure wasn't an option. He cleared his throat and spoke softer, yet shakily.

"Well, I suppose I could lead you in. I mean, I didn't exactly break out like most made it seem. I just happened to 'sneak' out without the guards looking."

"A tauren 'sneaking' out . . . ?" said Kamrik in disbelief.

"Whatever . . . can we just go?" Gunther urged while tapping his foot impatiently, for he alone found the story uninteresting.

"Right," said the blonde-haired captain, her hand on the hilt of her sword, "lead the way."

Kolark sighed and did as he was told, gun in hand. This was the price he had to pay for eating just a little more than his usual; back into the prison from hell. He tried to suppress those dismal memories, the days when he first laid eyes on Azeroth. He was indeed one of the few tauren, if not the only one, who ever landed then. It wasn't that enthralling, but the trip was one he'd remember, or so he thought. It wasn't surprising that his own brethren would exile him, thus sewing the threads of hate he soon began to embrace. It wasn't easy traveling alone, learning the lay of the land, facing the Maelstrom; bounty hunting was all he had known since.

"Alright, here's the plan," he began in a whisper, "I blast the nearest guards with itching bullets, and then we make a run for it inside."

"That's suicide!" Troi blurted out.

"Then what after? Distract them with your special tauren jig?" Kolark merely shrugged at Gunther's last remark, appearing hopeless and depressed.

"What does it matter? We're just gonna end up in the slammer."

"For Berthe's sake, just follow me!" Katreda spat, sword now in hand. The band carefully followed the agile captain around the stony obstacles surrounding the tower prison, all but Troi managing with ease; although he had taken off some of the heavy armor he wore before leaving the zeppelin, the task still resulted in some close calls. They paused to allow Troi to catch up, taking mental snapshots of the gigantic layout of the base. Judging by the defenses, going through the front door was like waving hello to a clan of rabid Doomguards. The section with the least scouting towers, the back entrance, had the most soldiers patrolling due to the lack of the structures, naturally. To make matters worse, the scouting towers also blocked access to several small side entrances as well. However, human error was much more probable than technical difficulties. That said, they finally decided to edge around back toward the patrols. Using the trenches and the tall, overgrown grass for cover, they went unseen through the majority of the outdoor complex, following their skilled captain to the best of their abilities.

The group came to an abrupt halt when the giant steel doors came into view, the back entrance seeming quite pregnable - and yet, guarded by several very well-equipped knights and mages. Luckily, the intruders were still far from their sight and hopefully far enough from the mages' sentry detection. But when the guards began whispering amongst each other and splitting up, wary looks playing on their obscure faces as they spread out, Katreda and the rest found themselves feeling a full jolt of adrenaline.

"This is it, we're doomed," muttered Kolark miserably. "These guys are elite guards, and now they've detected our presence!"

Just as the others were about to lose hope along with him, a miracle dawned on them yet again. The soldiers began rushing toward the other side of the fort, alarmed for some unknown reason. The mages hovered after them, apparently concerned about something more potentially dangerous than an odd noise in the thickets.

"Now's our chance," Kamrik whispered to his comrades, his daggers unsheathed at this point. They hurried toward the complex's heavy doors like mice skittering toward a baited mousetrap, stopping short when they spotted two leftover soldiers armed with swords safeguarding it. Gunther chuckled as they eyed the armored guardsmen, which could only mean he had something up his sleeve.

"Looks like you all need my help." He took out a small leather pouch from somewhere on his belt and revealed a tiny glass jar filled with a purplish liquid. He deftly pulled out two arrows from his quiver and dipped their heads into the noxious fluid. He put the jar away and took aim, pulling the string, aiming, and landing one hit after another. By the time the two guards realized something struck them in the arm, they collapsed, falling into what seemed a deep slumber. "You are all very welcome," he told them with quite a sarcastic tone.

"Hurry," Katreda told them, "Troi, Jedo, get that door open. Kamrik, Gunther, and I will enter within and attack any immediate soldier in sight. Kolark, you just stay back and blast anything that gets past us."

The swiftly-devised plan unfolded in a blur of a moment, the team cooperating without much of a hassle. Meanwhile, Kolark kept a leery eye out in the distance, where sounds of panic stirred.

"Man, whatever's going on in the other side sounds intense. Wonder what happened?"

"Just keep up with us, cowman," Gunther growled.

"Yeah, we need you to lead us inside," Jedo added.

The team met within the walls of Fort Watertight, yet none came to greet them. Something big was going on at the fort's front entrance. Nevertheless, they needed to take advantage of the distraction. The only problem was, they didn't have any leads at the moment, rendering the tauren's navigational skill useless; in other words, they were lost. Then, like the answer to a prayer, Pala's voice entered through their minds again, her voice a soothing calmness in their time of distress.

"Do not be startled, but I've been able to see through your eyes and noticed you've all made it inside. This is excellent news. Head to the 30th floor to the solitary confinement cells, where they keep all their greatest threats before execution."

"All the way up there?!" Troi scoffed.

"Easier said than done," Kamrik added.

"The tactician is definitely there?" It was Katreda's swift determination that took Pala's attention.

"Yes. Hurry, though. She might not have much time. With all the commotion, they may slay her where she stands for fear of the enemy getting to her first."

"Before you, er, go," Troi blurted out suddenly, "do you have any idea what distracted the guards up front?"

"I'll look into it, but don't expect an answer too soon. Just hurry."

The gang raced through the spacious first floor halls, cautious not to accidentally run into some soldiers in all the chaos. They heard the fort's security team scampering about toward the site of great concern, which luckily was the opposite direction, glad in a way that it happened, yet anxious all the same. The strange part of it all was that for all the rumpus going on there was no sound of attacks, just irate yelling and the clamoring of steel armor. They wasted no time, instead treading onward through the stone-walled corridor. Nothing but candles decorated the militaristic labyrinthian hall, which was just as well; less things to distract the lofty tauren. However, they soon began to believe their horned guide was getting them lost.

"No, not there!" Kolark instructed after wandering haphazardly, "This way! This way!"

Kolark rammed the locked double-doors he pointed to, somewhere still on floor number one, knocking the wooden planks off their hinges as though they were mere cardboard chunks. Three very terrified soldiers, not even armed or equipped yet, saw the hulking tauren and ran the other way, screaming and scurrying about like helpless murlocs. The sight would have been delightful under other circumstances, but the group could only feel relieved. They were led upstairs soon enough, only to the second floor. As soon as they touched that floor, voices began to flood from below.

"There's some scoundrel upstairs!" they were able to make out through the shouts.

"Damn!" Katreda cursed. "Kolark, do you remember where they kept you? The woman must have been placed in the same spot you were. After all, you weren't placed in the P.O.W. jails, right? You'd be with the political threats, I think."

"Um, sure, of course I wouldn't wind up in P.O.W. jail. Hehe, why would a merchant end up there?"

The so-called merchant led them around in circles, until they heard more guards yelling from behind. "Get the mages! Rally the others! Intruder inside the base!"

That's right, the guards took me up to my cell using teleporters . . .

Reeling with excitement, Kolark began speaking rapidly and loudly. "Teleporters, there are some teleporting mechanisms on the floor that look like regular tiles, only it shined bright. But if I remember correctly, the tiles led to random areas, depending on the location the tile is found."

The others didn't question it any further; there was no way they could climb up twenty-nine floors by foot and save the woman in time. They turned to Kolark to lead the way, the uneasy lot hoping they could get through without too much trouble.

"Do you remember any nearby landmarks?" The captain didn't realize how pointless the question was since the second floor appeared to be an exact replica of the first floor to them.

"A-ha!" came a muffled voice from somewhere around the echoing gray walls. "There's actually six of you, what looks like five humans and a tauren. Mercenaries hired by the Horde, no doubt!"

The man approached from behind them, completely suited up in shining steel armor and accompanied by two lower-ranking officers. The man's helm was made to look like some horrific wyrm's face, the long pointed teeth surrounding where the eyes and mouth would be and horns spiraling around behind him. A wide crest around the top of the helm gave him the look of a dragoon of lore. A long, blood-red cape wavered behind him as he took each stride gracefully. His pale gold armor clattering loudly was muted by the sound of a ridiculously long, thin katana being unsheathed from his side.

"Today, these halls will rain blood! How dare you think you can intrude these halls without receiving divine punishment!"

He charged immediately, his soldiers close to his side. The first thing the ambushed gang could do was draw their weapons, was the only thing they could do as their pursuer closed in on them. The knight's katana, a peculiar weapon, swiped down with a whining scream, cleaving the very air in front of the closest person, Jedo, who in turn could only back away. He hit the wall rather hard, his still-healing arm knocking painfully against tough bricks, and the sudden realization that he barely had any armor to protect him making him feel sick with dread; one clean strike and it would be all over. The long blade his adversary carried allowed him to strike and stay at a safe distance, rendering the others too cautious to strike in the crowded hall, especially with two lackeys at his side.

Troi seemed to adhere to that fact and used the range of his spear to keep the dragoon knight busy for the moment. Meanwhile, Katreda and Gunther made quick work of the minor soldiers, whose meek rapiers made for a poor challenge against sword and arrows. Katreda dispatched the last lackey and cast upon the party a blessing that would protect them against physical trauma, giving them more of a chance against the fiendishly agile armored man.

"You still persist in taking me on?" questioned the man, and although his face was hidden behind the helm, Jedo could clearly tell he was smiling, enjoying the thrill of the kill. "Do you not understand your fate?"

As he became surrounded on all sides, he quickly lowered himself in the split second they gave him and brought his weapon up and around. The swirling blade appeared to be just a white streak surrounding him, sending his attackers reeling backward, weapons all parried, even managing to chop Troi's spear cleanly in half. Following his super fast strike, he thrust his foot forward, knocking the astounded boy and his halved spear down onto the ground. Meanwhile, with one hand firmly pressed against Jedo, he shoved him against the wall and brought the sword an inch from his chest. Jedo expected the needle-like katana to pierce through leather and skin, and then muscle and bone. However, a voice broke through the few seconds it took for all of it to happen.

"I found the teleporter!" shouted Kamrik, who had somehow snuck away from the battle scene and searched for a way out. The dragoon knight looked away, looked straight at the boy who nettled him so by locating the device he so badly wanted to keep away from them in the first place and snarled.

"Impudent boy-,"

It was the distraction Jedo needed to use a holy smiting spell to repel him and the weapon away, the man wincing from the blinding light. It also provided the cover needed for the others to scramble off with Jedo. As they neared the corner Kamrik stood, Gunther paused and held out his bow.

"I'll cover, step through!"

Katreda knew that with a ranged weapon, Gunther would make for a perfect stall; she was ready to ask Kolark to assist, but he was the first one scurrying into the magical device. It seemed he may have known that armored man . . .

Gunther fired three carefully aimed shots one after the other, but found his confidence shattered when the hulking knight slashed each one with his weapon, not even needing to parry or dodge them. He hated to give that smug bucket-headed bastard the satisfaction, but gawking in awe was all he could do before hurrying off with the others into the portal. He soon found himself with the rest of them, finding the young thief setting off the deactivation tile for the teleporter.

"Neat trick, huh?" Kamrik laughed, but the others weren't so much in the mood to join him.

"What floor are we on?" Jedo spoke aloud, his tone more serious after the near-death situation.

"Ack, this is . . ."

The tauren trailed off, glancing around at the rusting jail cells and grimy floor. The others soon realized the rust all around them wasn't rust at all, but blood, dried after many years of having been shed. The room was a torture room, the myriad number of sharp, pointed objects in the room mind-numbing. Chunks of flesh and bone was still left on some of the mechanisms, as if kept there for the inquisitors' enjoyment and relishing of past anguish. Surprisingly, all but Katreda grimaced in fear and disgust, the fiery captain merely wearing a stern, angered look.

"We need to get the hell out of here," she said bluntly, running past tables with limb cuffs stained a dark red. More horrifying serrated gizmos decorated the ceiling above, but none cared to examine them too closely. They found the door leading out, hoping they wouldn't have to enter another room so gruesome and let their tension dissipate as they saw a clear, quiet corridor. To their left was a narrow strip through the wall of open sky, the outdoors clearly in view. From the scene outside, they figured they had to be high up on an upper floor. The room, likely designed for archers to fire from a protected slit in the wall, went around in a half-circle, the other end hidden, but silent.

"I don't see any armies coming, or soldiers or Horde members," Troi said with his eyes training the perimeter of the island.

"Then they're probably on to us," Katreda replied with a frown, "we'd better hurry. Besides, that gold-armored man may still be on our trail."

They marched around the hall, their boots clattering loud enough through the thick silence the mini balcony harbored. The next door was metallic and very heavy, but to their surprise led to a stairway. Empty as well, it spiraled up several floors, with the number of the current floor etched neatly on a nearby wall reading "26".

"Ah, floor thirty must be further up," Kolark said, relieved.

After an unnerving climb up the stairs to their targeted destination, they were relieved when the door to floor thirty opened, the hall in front of them just as silent as the last. They immediately entered to see two rows of empty identical cells, both to their left and right sides. The hall continued straight down until yet another row of cells, this time with thick steel doors, lined the room's walls. Names were tagged onto these doors as if the prisoners were just simple test animals.

"Good," Pala chimed in once more, "you made it. Now, look for the tag that reads 'Lucrecia'."

They all stopped short when they saw the name-plate that read "Lucrecia Miller." Katreda signaled Kamrik to pick the lock to her cell. The expert thief prodigy lifted all the tumbles in five seconds flat, leaving the others in awe; they expected the locks of Fort Watertight to be topnotch. However, they had no time to gawk, instead rushing inside only to see a woman sitting down content on a rather lavish couch. And she still sat there, expectantly, her flowing robe neat and perfectly set, the purple rims around the white fabric especially exquisite and very expensive. She had long, straight blonde hair tied back save for a single strand that ran in front of her face. She was young and very beautiful, her eyes shining a deep ocean blue. The woman held near her a large tome and a small bag probably with her belongings. When she finally stood up, she spoke first.

"Ah, I assume you're here to release me, right?"

"H-How did you know?" Kamrik asked in surprise.

"Trust me, I know," she said with a smile. "An intruder in a fort as well-fortified as this would want someone very important. Who more important than I?"

"That's a bit cock-sure, if I may say so," Gunther said. "What if we were here to kill you?"

"Then you would have done so already," she replied simply.

"You think you know everything, huh?" Gunther ranted on.

"Yet, I am correct, aren't I?"

Katreda nodded, taking one last look outside the small cell. "Damn, they'll be here soon! You are Lucrecia, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, that's right. I am Lucrecia Miller, daughter of a well-known tactician in Palatinus."

"Really?" Kamrik said with much interest.

"No time for chitchat," Troi interrupted. "They're gonna gain on us soon!"

"There they are!" came a shout from the one-way exit of the hall. Down raced several knights, their armor and weaponry much more intimidating than those from before. Luckily, the gold-armored knight didn't make a second appearance, probably busy with the other "intruder". They would have been just ten feet away, until suddenly they stopped short in their tracks. Crimson blood dripped down in front of them as they slowly crumpled to the ground all at once, eight bodies slumped over . . . except for one.

"What's going on?" Jedo asked in a sudden state of shock.

As the shadows began to fade, yet another man was revealed, one clad in mere leather armor. He had golden hair down to his shoulders and a sword most unique. It was none other than the general of Stormwind, Xadek.

"Father!" Jedo shouted, his voice muffled out of surprise. He imagined he was here to rescue them, but something wasn't exactly reassuring of that. His stance was still hostile-looking, and he had a daunting sparkle in his eyes. As they locked eyes, Jedo had to ask himself: was it really him? What had he been doing all this time? And why follow them into Fort Watertight? One thing was certain, he sought something of great importance to come through here . . .

"Longtime no see, Jedo."

* * *

-Outskirts of Naxxramas, moments before the attack . . .

"Are the preparations set?" asked the vampiric Lestat.

"Yes, master, all is in place," replied a male specter, his tattered robes just as ethereal as his floating body.

"Excellent. Miss Windrunner is in for a very rude awakening."

Seconds later, Nathanos strode up to meet Lestat and his forces. Fresh troops followed after him. Nathanos gave the smiling undead ruler a firm nod and spoke, breaking the cool silence of the land.

"I trust all is well with your branch here."

"But of course. All will commence by the Dark Lady's word."

"It is time to prove where your true loyalties lie, 'vampire'," Nathanos added blandly. An even wider smile spread across Lestat's fragile features. And like the next cue to his deathly play, Sylvanas marches forth behind the troops, pompous and maniacal as always.

"Ah, but now your loyalties will all become uniform, united with a higher entity!"

At Lestats words, Sylvanas' general turned his stead toward the floating vampire, a grave look barely plastered onto his dead face. Lestat lifted up a strange object, something like a fruit. And out materialized several magi ghosts, hovering above and chanting around the peculiar fruit. Runes appeared instantly, brightly under the treacherous traitors. Dumbstruck, it was much too late for Sylvanas, or even Nathanos for that matter, to react on time.

"Now, you shall all work for my 'dark lady'!"

PSSSHHH!

From the dark woods flew an arrow at lightning speed, so quick, Lestat had not realized it pierced the item in his hand until it smashed against a tree, pinned perfectly by the arrow. Desperation filled his fiendish mind as his hand felt nothing but empty air. He quickly averted his gaze toward the woods and saw Sylvanas, her bow being plucked again. This time, the arrow struck home, directly into Lestat's gut. He clutched it as if in pain, even though he knew he'd never feel such a cursed sensation. He turned to the "false" Sylvanas and watched as the ordinary banshee became herself again, his plan for expansion foiled. He turned to face the true banshee queen, seemingly unhurt.

"Hmm, hmm, hmm . . . Ha, ha, ha! Sylvanas, it intrigues me how you saw right through my plan, but today you and your brethren shall join Lady Zeda!"

Sylvanas only smiled back. And just when Lestat thought he heard her actually chuckle, for the first time in centuries, he experienced pain again. Filled with horrible anguish, he finally became aware that the arrow was still plunged inside of him. As he pulled, he nearly keeled over in the outright pain it generated.

"Hmm, I was going to save this for Arthas, but I see I've made the right choice." Sylvanas' words were calm and biting at this point, even more so to the downed vampire. "Let me guess, this Zeda is in league with him . . . isn't she?"

Just as the pain began to settle in, Lestat had the chance to actually retort, fury in his very tone.

"Worthless wretch! What makes you think I shall reveal a thing to you! Ahhhhh!"

Sylvanas walked down toward the pitiful creature, the magi specters yielding in shame and reverence. "Little vampire, that was a no-no. you see, I've implanted a rather unique parasite within you. Fused with dark magic, the arrow I struck you with contained the spores of potent new specimen. The sporophyte probably set its roots deep throughout your whole withered body by now. And because it is psionically linked to me, I can instruct it to squirm within every inch of your dross flesh. The chemicals it releases then allows you to actually feel pain and suffering. At least now, as my slave, you can experience half of what I must endure each passing day."

"That can't be possible! Zeda will dispel it, you shall see!"

"Not if I kill her first," Sylvanas responded in the coldest possible tone.

"How? How did you realize what I've been plotting? You were still with your forces in Stratholme when I gave the orders. You should be under Zeda's spell right now!"

Without saying a word, Sylvanas crossed her arms, and behind her, in front of her, all around both of them, forms began to appear. The Dark Lady's rogues littered the entire forest grounds, astonishing the once-ruler-of-the-undead.

"Spies . . . all undetected?!"

"Don't ever test me again, and maybe I won't continue to torment you."

Sylvanas strode off to Nathanos, no longer focusing on the now feeble vampire. Her thoughts lay solely on the matter at hand, and now with the lord of the dead adhering to her every whim, she had full control of the battle instead of relying on an "ally". It appeared she would've done what she planned regardless of his loyalty, but she was counting on his treachery and found herself correct in her judgement anyway.

"Formation is established, my lady," Nathanos spoke, standing at her side. "Shall I?"

"Of course. Assuming Arthas hasn't supplied the reinforcements yet, victory should be ours."

The flag-bearer, a slim Forsaken undead, blew the horn, a sound so chilling in the desolate Plaguelands. The vicious undead let out warcries as they charged on forward. Sylvanas' warriors rode their steeds down toward the floating citadel that was Naxxramas, the black edifice getting closer and closer. Rogues disappeared from sight, making their way downward unseen. Priests rode their own undead horses to follow up behind the band of armored kin and archers. Lestat watched in deep contemplation as the mages she deployed headed off a different direction, using teleportation to mass transport more troops and meatwagons.

"Curious, vampire?" Sylvanas called out, looking out at the field rather than at him. Lestat merely smiled, replying in kind.

"As much as I am loyal to my Lady, I am eager to hear how you shall gain a victory against a giant hovering structure such as that."

"Hmph, just watch."

As her forces reached the premises of the looming necropolis, the mages materialized somewhere off to the west of the others and remained immobile for the moment. Meanwhile, the main bulk of the army, led by Nathanos himself, were met by whatever forces Kel'Thuzad had. Sylvanas was surprised to see the lich out in the open as well, causing her to smile wickedly. Were their numbers lacking that badly? Then, like a means to crush her aspirations, at least thirty meat wagons emerged from due north, all of them in a perfect row. She knew what he had intended as soon as she saw those wagons.

"Take out those wagons!" she shrieked, so loud that perhaps both forces could hear her. She didn't care. Those wagons were carrying corpses Kel'Thuzad had stored especially for such an occasion. But it was too late; Nathanos' men met with the remnants of the lich's, which included mindless ghouls, abominations, and the occasional Nerubian. The meat wagons stood in the background, unloading white and reddish masses onto the field. Ghouls tossed them out onto the ground, and even as they continued unloading, two purple summoning circles appeared, one above Kel'Thuzad and the other beneath him and the wagons. His hands wavered in the air as he chanted his spell.

"Haha, this should get interesting," Lestat laughed, watching intently.

"Quit your babbling and assist me!" she called out, willing the parasite to afflict him gravely.

"Y-yes, right away," he stuttered, flying out to the field. As he flew through, he made careful observations, watching for what the banshee queen had in store for his ex-comrades. He barely reached the battlefield when the lucid lich completed his necromantic spell, raising all the corpses from their rotting slumber. They all rose as skeletal warriors and sorcerers, their eyes glowing menacingly as they immediately staggered toward their undead opponents. In a matter of seconds, Sylvanas' forces were outnumbered one-to-six, making the vampire quite hesitant at that moment.

"Come forth, my brethren!" he called out, but not a single loyal ghost or lich heeded his call. "What is this?"

Behind him, Sylvanas made her way into the midst of battle mounted on her personal steed, bow in hand. When Lestat realized it was his fellow undead following her, he only frowned in disbelief.

"My apologies, Lestat, but I knew I would have need of your people, so I stole them." How she managed to infect his forces with the plague right under his nose was yet another mystery, but . . .

"Arthas!" he spat. How could he have been so easily spent. Now more than ever, he felt used and helpless. There was no Zeda, no way out of this mess; he would have to place his loyalties on Sylvanas. She wasn't just lucky, after all. The woman had something his other masters didn't. Whether it would be enough was questionable, but he would teach her the ropes, tell her more. As much as he hated to admit it, she deserved some merit.

Lestat unwinded his crackling whip and dove right above where the battle was, careful not to get plunged with additional arrows. With a mighty crack of his whip, an arc of flames incinerated at least a dozen summoned skeletons. However, for every dozen he did decimate, twice that much would charge in. He watched as the warriors held on to their second lives, the fight now becoming a defensive one. With only warriors in the front to hold off the marauding undead, archers to pick off the bulkier abominations and skeletal casters, and priests struggling to heal, the army would fall apart as soon as the healers ran dry. However, the queen suddenly made her appearance.

"Now!" she cried, and out came her stealthed rogues from each direction, firing their own arrows and knives, shredding their counterparts with lethal daggers. The shadowy specters emerged seemingly out of nowhere, cursing their foes and mesmerizing others. Lestat's liches began casting their own potent evocations of darkness, eliminating hundreds in one volley. It wasn't until Sylvanas herself paused from where she currently rode that Lestat paid extra attention, even as she shot an arrow up high. It landed straight down onto where Kel'Thuzad hovered, the wary lich placing a shield of ice around him in anticipation. The arrow barely nicked the barrier, landing, instead, onto the ground, arrowhead down. Sylvanas smirked at the lich, and she could sense the impending feeling he bore, the same feeling one felt when he knew he was screwed.

The arrow unleashed a light-red electrical field that radiated around the lich, and in that moment, the spell-casting leader of the cult was unable to cast. With his practically ceaselessly growing army cut off, it was Sylvanas' time to strike. Strike for revenge.

Kel'Thuzad could not even whisper a single arcane word as he watched his forces dwindle by the hands of Sylvanas and his wayward accomplice. It appeared the wily banshee queen was regaining her talents from her old life. No matter, he began to think. Arthas was sending him reinforcements, plus the magical field wouldn't, couldn't last too long. He would be resurrecting undead within minutes. She'd never pull it off; Naxxramas will remain and always would.

"Greeting, Kel'Thuzad." In shock, Kel'Thuzad turned to the meet face-to-face with Sylvanas herself. She wore a repulsively complacent look, as if she had already won the battle. He could only gaze at her in astonishment, still watching her even as an explosion from behind her annihilated a good portion of his falling pawns. He was at a checkmate.

"Sylvanas, you seemed to have finally climbed up the rungs of the ladder to success. However, even should I fall here, you would never comprehend the Lich King's great agenda. He shall press onward, to places you could never imagine. He shall find out that he and he alone possesses the ability to shape Azeroth in the palm of his hands."

"Oh? I believe I've shaped Azeroth in many ways. As your pitiful master sat on his mighty Frozen Throne, I've organized my people, rebuilt us a sanctuary, downed hundreds of thousands from the Alliance, and made some worthy allies. Hmm, I think I've outdone Arthas, wouldn't you think?"

"Foolish cretin! That's just what I mean. Still clueless. Arthas was not chosen to be lich king for the hell of it. There is a reason behind everything that happens in the Scourge. Whether Naxxramas falls tonight matters not. What matters now is that this day shall be your last. Are you not relieved, Sylvanas, that Arthas shall allow you eternal rest?"

"I believe I'm not done in this world just yet, lich- ,"

As quickly as she spoke, Kel'Thuzad finished mumbling something, his hands raised, and even quicker, Sylvanas shot an arrow, one with an usual tip. It struck the sternum of the lich's chest, paralyzing him in an instant. The spell he was to cast fizzled in mids-stride, rendering it a useless waste of mana.

"W-What is this . . . ?"

"It's the same arrow I used on Arthas all those years ago, the one that would have killed him. But you had to interfere! A most fitting end for Arthas' lapdog, wouldn't you agree?" Sylvanas edged closer to the necromancer, lost in her pleasure, imagining him being Arthas, thinking of what she could do to him. However, overconfidence had led the greatest leaders to tragedy. On that note, she waited a moment.

Suddenly, the sound of arcane magic being channeled reverberated all around them. To his great dismay, Kel'Thuzad watched in horror as several dozens of mages stood beneath, casting a mass spell together. With all the arcane magic they could muster, they literally ensnared the massive floating necropolis with pure arcane aether. With this grip did they teeter Naxxramas, tilting it downward into the ground beneath it. It crashed with a thundering roar, festering soil flying every which way. Sylvanas' own wagons bombarded the downed citadel as the mages continued to drain all energy from the once most notorious citadel in the Lordaeron region.

"So, where are the rest of your men?"

Sylvanas' question took Kel'Thuzad by surprise; how had she known? Or maybe she didn't and was trying to find out more before killing him.

"You would love for me to tell you, now would you, Sylvanas?"

"No matter, I'll have my reconnaissance team have a look-see. Now what to do with you . . ."

Before he could make a single other word, he knew what she had clutched in her hand; a Soul Stone. She intended for him a fate worse than eternal death. But any suffering would be worth it, as long as he could assure Arthas victory in some way. With all the energy he had left in his waning corpse-of-a-body, he fought off the paralysis and waved one arm at Naxxramas. Before his soul, his very being, slipped into the violet stone, the necropolis that was Naxxramas was unsummoned - back to Northrend.


	13. Harbingers of Ill Boding

-Chapter 13-

-Silvermoon City, the Royal Chambers on an ominous night . . .

Time seemed to ebb away into nothingness as Lor'themar Theron, Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas, sat impatiently on his chromatic plush armchair, tapping his fingers absently at the armrest. Even the beautiful view of the enlarged and glowing moon through his archway entrance did little to ease the anxiety that ate at him, a real shame it was. All he could think about was what Andwar had said, before his last dying breath.

Lieutenant Andwar was one of his most trusted, was among the actual few Blood Elves to volunteer to lead a battalion into a most crucial area, one far south into the Swamps of Sorrow where just several miles away lay the Dark Portal itself. After running into some minor skirmishes with the Draenei, whose efforts to enter the portal as well fell apart after encountering Andwar and his company, things went along smoothly. The young lieutenant did a fine job leading his men past the swamps and into the Blasted Lands, where the portal stood ever prominently. They were so close to securing a route to Outland, a feat that three expeditionary forces could not accomplish. So close to victory. But it seemed the war for the portal was just as crucial to each race as it was to his own, and, inevitably, there was a never-ending war being waged.

The Regent closed his weary eyes, weakened by lack of sleep, rubbing his eyelids with one equally tired hand. It was what Andwar said to him before his long-suffered end that started the buildup of dread.

"_They're coming for us, Theron," _he said in a whisper, _"the demons, the otherworlders, they are ready for invasion!"_

At first, Theron dismissed it as a kind of war delirium, caused by some horrible onslaught, but as he carried him forth into the Royal Chambers after he demanded all others to leave him be, that he needed to speak to Theron desperately, he knew there was something amiss. Andwar appeared jarred, his eyes glassy and wide, yet strong and courageous. He insisted on speaking, even sent the healers away, saying it was no longer necessary, which struck a different kind of terror into the regent. Then, almost with a kind of plea, he went on to explain the situation to him, in full detail. He described demons of incredible girth, strength, and intensity, stating how they fought, how they killed a half of his forces in five minutes flat. How they came into being through the sacrificed lives of various living beings on that killing field. He sobbed as he told of their attempts to escape into the base camp of Stonard and watched in total awe as they pursued them and tore their haven to shreds shortly after. In the end, he arrived with four others, a trail of death in their wake. Sadly, though, they collapsed before they could even make it to the capital. In a morbid twist of luck and fate, the demons had decided to settle for those left stranded at Stonard. Not long after, however, Andwar had-

_Stop it! Thinking about it would solve nothing . . ._

But he was forced to, compelled by the images of the once lithe, strong form that was his loyal lieutenant. He glowed a deep purplish hue, one that _felt_ familiar, yet was foreign to him altogether. Andwar had pulled away from him, had stood back holding his chest wildly, violently. The guards had stepped in, but could only watch, lost in a strange trance. And Theron saw white bone beneath his arms, his ribcage fully exposed. There was no blood, no gore. Only dried bone and his gut-wrenching screams. To add to his horror, a small, cadaverous creature scurried out of the purple mist, screeching just as two more scuttled at him with mortal bloodlust and sharp, glistening claws and teeth. Without a thought, he scorched them all with the magic of the Arcane. The monsters would not fall easily despite their meager forms, somewhat resistant, and they soon spread in overwhelming numbers. They flooded the entire citadel with hot panic. During the chaos that ensued, other shadowy creatures spilled forth the blood of his people as they charged from the open portal. Succubi and felguards seeped through the dull light and made short work of the mage guards in the vicinity. Unknown chimaeras shambled through every hallway. Spellbreakers fought vigorously to quell the instability of magic that flowed freely through the air, but met with untimely ends. Many elves died that night defending the citadel, preventing the monsters from entering the city. It was a long and painful battle that fell upon them at such an unlikely time. After the worst of it, they made sure the entryway, whatever it had been, was sealed shut and every last demon had been slain. Mysteriously, the lieutenant's reluctant ritual had waned.

_But it haunts you, doesn't it? It's eating you alive. It was a portal, a sacrifice that opened some gateway to hell-_

_STOP IT!_

Theron finally opened his eyes, the last image set in his head that of the lifeless, tortured form of Andwar. What were those demons? Were they truly the ones of myth? Were those the ones Lord Kael'thas was said to face? The same ones his ancestors unleashed? There were more questions than answers piling in his head, giving him an irritating migraine. It had taken him three full days to think of places to effectively and strategically place scouts and soldiers in case of an attack. Three long days without rest of pure, one-hundred-percent stress. And like the icing to a cake, there was the damn Alliance to worry about, causing all sorts of inconveniences. Not that the Horde was that much more helpful; since joining their brutish ranks, they had nothing but trouble on their hands, leading Theron to rethink their little deal. So much that he was beginning to realize that perhaps, for the sake of healing his land, he should avoid the Horde's demands for some time; and that was what he had done for some time. Yet, there was something about Sylvanas, aside from her kinship with them, that sparked a certain potential in the future. He just seemed to sense it . . .

"Lord Theron!" came a sharp call from somewhere outside, snapping him out of his dreary thoughts. "Lord Theron, I bring urgent news!"

Theron stood up, focusing on the Blood Elf before him, a messenger from the Farstrider enclave . . .

_Which meant he came from Sunstrider Isle, just up north. The Scourge!_

It was just as he feared. The Farstriders up north were tasked with watching their flank for Scourge activities. And, of course, just in the most dire moments, the undead make their move.

"De'Lana, Farstrider! I implore you, speak!" Theron barked, nearly jumping off his seat.

"Ranger Solanna sent me to report that the Farstrider Watch have witnessed a legion of undead sailing down just west of here! They do not appear to be headed this way, and so, in her judgement and wisdom, decided to come to you and await your command."

"Hmm, just what are they up to," Lor'themar muttered to himself, lost for a moment. "Are they anywhere near the Tranquil Shore boundaries, or are they heading further west? If so, they could be organizing an attack for Tirisfal Glades."

"No, sir," replied the messenger with reassuring confidence. "Ranger Solanna stated they were heading directly south. They were practically off the coast of Eversong!"

"The Plaguelands," Theron muttered again, but this time louder. "Stratholme, Naxxramas . . . they could be headed anywhere. We must warn Lady Sylvanas at once. Send a royal messenger through the transwarper linked to the Undercity at once. In addition, order Solanna to sharpen the defenses at the borders."

"Yes, sir!"

With that, the Regent was once again alone, but only for a short moment. A rare sight greeted his eyes, one so uncommon, he had to rethink what he just saw. Standing amidst the shadows stood three looming figures.

"Magatha, what a . . . most startling surprise," he began. "What brings you all the way to my fair city?" The old crone stood venerably before him, her two tauren attendants at her side.

"How do you do, Regent? Not so well, I presume? You sure look ill at ease about something." Theron wasn't too sure exactly how a tauren should appear given the proper circumstance, but he sensed a sharp, mirthful edge to her ways, almost precognitive. And to further add to this feeling, Magatha replied.

"Actually, Cairne sent me up here to check up on things. Apparently, you've been absent for awhile. A lot has happened since your last council meeting."

"Well, the Blood Elves here have had their share of dilemmas, and still do," he retorted, his voice unfaltering.

"I see. I suppose I shouldn't bother being the bearer of bad news, then." The regent's stomach sank at her words. Could it have something to do with the Scourge? He hoped he was wrong.

"No, go right ahead."

"It's the Forsaken. The Scourge are finally commencing a full-scale attack after much biding, using the ruined Hearthglen to the southwest as an eventual checkpoint. Sylvanas, herself, has done a superb job holding down Kel'Thuzad's forces in the Plaguelands, but to face the might of all the Scourge alone . . . ?"

"And what would you have me do?" he inquired with his own edgy tone.

"I received the news from Cairne just moments ago, a shock even to me. You are the nearest one, Lor'themar. The Horde is mustering whatever forces they can, even after their failed assault on the Alliance. We'll lose many, if not all of the Forsaken's elite battalions, crippling us and giving the Alliance the upper hand!"

The overwhelmed elf could only let out a shuddering breath, trying his best to maintain his composure. How, why would this happen now? And for the Scourge to send a good bulk of their army on a raid out of the blue, it seemed unreal.

"What would you have me do?" he repeated in a defeated tone. It was all he could ask. "We cannot afford to have our flanks exposed!"

"You mean to say your Farstriders is all you have left? Surely after your glorious victory in the Ghostlands, you must have some worthy men to deploy."

Theron jammed a tight fist down on his armrest, settling into his chair like a withered elderly elf. It was beyond his control. If the Scourge gained a foothold on Hearthglen, his land would undoubtedly become another undead breeding ground. Still, the Blood Elves would lose hundreds just in the time it would take for Horde reinforcements to arrive if he sent them in now. It would be suicide. If only they were more prepared for this, his strongest mages could have mass teleported the reinforcements to aid them. However, by now they were all mana-craved, exhausted, and very unorganized. He needed to think things through more thoroughly.

"Then allow me to consult my advisors first-,"

"No! We must outrace the Scourge before their arrival and steel ourselves for the battle at hand! Preparations must be made immediately lest we risk Tirisfal Glades being lost." Magatha seemed more distressful at the moment, adding to the tension. Theron closed shut his eyes once again, reliving the demonic event that scarred his mind. And he opened them, a firm, yet forced resolve of what he knew he had to do. All he needed to do was think of his beloved blood elves.

"The Farstriders. And that's all I'm giving! That is all I can afford, for the sake of my people. Call back the messenger at once and relay my commands." They were the best he had for a battle of time and survival. Magatha, herself, smiled, knowing that fact, and bowed down graciously, though the elven leader could have cared less.

"We are forever indebted to you, Lor'themar. We made a fine choice in enlisting your people's help." The tauren and her attendants took their leave at last. And so was the regent alone again. He shivered as a cold breeze swept across him, yet there were no winds that night. Something ominous was on the horizon.

* * *

Scarlet gazed up at the cloudy, grey skies and wondered, not for the first time, what she was getting herself into. Yes, so much had happened since the battles that led her here, but to dwell in such a foreign place for so long certainly took its toll. She longed for Gaia, for her kingdom Palatinus. For a princess to be away from the very land she loved and safeguarded all her life, it was as if she had turned her back on her home, making her feel irresponsible and puerile. But she constantly reassured herself that it was for the best, that she would eventually come back and liberate her people from Lodis. Still, something lingered in the back of her mind. Memories, especially that of her beloved and valiant father, King Magnus, haunted her more times than she could even count, scrabbling at the edges of her sanity. However, she was a princess, a leader, and _would_ be strong. Nonetheless, the thought of another Ogre Battle seemed the epitome of despair. Her father may have been the hero of the last war, but that wouldn't mean she could carry on his legacy should the demons strike again.

_But the demons are already here,_ she reminded herself numbly,_ we walk even now onto the fields of death . . ._

"Almost at the port to Theramore," Laya intruded. She stood guard for the princess throughout the whole trip, but somehow Scarlet had managed to forget as she stoically lost herself in contemplation. "Are you sure you are willing to go through with this, Mi'lady?"

"Of course she is," Pala replied from somewhere behind, her appearance graceful for such a large creature. The bovine woman wore a loose white robe adorned with varied-colored gems as the brooch. A velvet cape, also white, ran down from her somewhat slender neck to her broad hips. "She is a princess, and there's nothing like a royal diplomat, right Scarlet?" The peaceful mystic had a strange habit of picking up on everything.

"Refrain from calling her by name," Laya commanded firmly. "She is not just any commoner, mind you."

"Will you cease your hostility, Laya?" Scarlet commanded. "We are here on an entirely different world. And although we are pretty caught up on the geography of this place, she has served as an excellent guide to us. The least we can do is express our thanks by being hospitable. Besides, I am princess of no lands here."

"My apologies, Your Highness," Laya said humbly.

"Strange," responded the young female tauren, her pleasant expression changing to a puzzled one, "a princess saying something like that. You baffle me more and more, Scar . . . _Your Highness_."

"What? My manners? Shouldn't all royalty have them?"

"No, it's not that. Well, anyway, I can see the island off in the distance. I guess traveling by boat wasn't such a bad idea after all."

In fact, it was the only way. Despite the rocky relationship between Theramore Isle and the rest of the Alliance, the islanders would likely consider a low-flying zeppelin more a threat, given their position. But traveling by ship, however, would lower the enmity, especially since this little city was well known for their astounding navy; they couldn't aim their cannons on a lone ship without wondering what was their intent. Once they'd spotted them, they hoped to be led into the harbor where Theramore soldiers would interrogate them. Hopefully, there would be no need for violence. Lady Jaina was known for having a level head when it came to statesmanship, or so Pala was informed.

"Be ready for anything," Laya stated rather calmly to the rest of the crew, her bow still strapped to her back, but her hands much anxious.

"I see we've almost landed," came another voice from the stern of the ship. "Nervous, Princess?"

"Thanks to both our counseling, Vincent, she is about as ready as a queen would," Pala declared confidently.

"Well, I've spoken to the captain of the ship," he began, walking toward the group with arms crossed across his chest. "Apparently, we owe nothing to the goblin, yet I see he's wearing my good-luck pendant and Laya's forest vestment. Nevertheless, our men are stout and eager to act should the need arise inland."

"Ugh, the little bugger can keep my vestment now," Laya replied with disgust for both the theft and the goblin. She then turned to Vincent with a snide look and said, "And as for that pendant, it won't be so lucky when I'm through with the captain."

"At any rate, let me handle the first Theramoran that greets us. The fact that we're all humans, for the most part, is also a plus. But when we make it to Jaina Proudmoore's chambers, it'll be all you, Princess."

There were no more words as the ship lofted through the foggy sea, the port lights shining brightly up ahead. All save Pala were at the bow enjoying the serene view; she was wandering the spirit realm as always. The gentle lapping of the sea was slowly replaced with ship bells, fishing mechanisms, and the chatter of folks at the seaside markets. It was as if a whole city teleported into view right before their eyes. Nonetheless, they also noticed the cannons turning attentively at them. Already, the docks were surged with armed forces bearing the Theramore anchor crest. Two ships were also already manned. It seemed the whole island was up-to-date with the world around them rather than lagging behind. Lastly, and certainly not any less impressive, was the fortress-like retreat guarded by several sentry towers in the hazy background of the city in which the Assembly likely resided, and needless to say, Jaina as well.

The ship came to a galvanizing halt, crashing rather harshly against the wooden deck, knocking the crew off their feet. Several Theramore soldiers dove headfirst into the murky depths just to avoid the ship's advance, wood splintering and flying all over. Needless to say, a huge commotion stirred.

"Whoops, sorry 'bout that," rasped the tiny goblin as he crawled up from the cabin. "I'll have that fixed before we take off, dontcha worry!"

"What is the meaning of this?" shouted a man who pushed his way through toward the front of the docked ship. He wore a distinct uniform and hat from the rest, though with the same crest and appeared a bit older than the others as well. A mean gang of pirate-like soldiers swarmed the docks, gathering their forces into a cohesive unit. The older man put his hand up ever subtly to quiet the fired-up port guards. Vincent decided he was the captain of the guard and approached, not daring to step off the ship just yet.

"Greetings, sir," he started, nodding brusquely at the serious man clad in ocean blue sailing gear. "I would like to get on to details with you, but I am afraid I bear grievous news. I must speak to Lady Jaina Proudmoore immediately, for it concerns the people of Stormwind, her last remaining kin on Azeroth."

"Nonsense!" spat the pompous man in blue, his venerable eyes sparkling with mad outrage. "Who do you think you are sailing to our port, crashing onto our docks, and demanding you speak to our fair lady about your idle ranting!"

"Uh, I said I'd fix that-,"

The goblin was cut short as the gathered Theramore soldiers unsheathed their sabers, holding them in a threatening and outright fashion. Sailors on their ships ceased their work and had their hands on their blunderbuss. Even commoners and passers-by were keeping wary eyes on the docks. The captain glared at Vincent with the fury of that of a guard dog safeguarding his master's home. It was a bad start for them, though they were lucky the cannons weren't fired yet. And just when things were getting hot, there came a frantic shout from one of Theramore seafarers on the summit of a mast.

"Ahoy! Battle ships! They approach in swarms due north of here!"

"That is precisely where these cretins came from!" the captain gasped. "They brought more scallywags, these dogs! They think us mere murlocs?! We should have blasted you to a pulp when we had the chance!"

In the sudden confusion that their pursuers stirred up, Vincent cautiously gestured Laya to come forth and whispered something quickly to her.

"Take Scarlet and find your way to Jaina, even if you have to by force. I have an ace up my sleeve, and she'll make her cameo appearance soon enough."

Without uttering a single question, Laya strode back to the princess. Laya knew her well enough to know she was nervous, but that determined look in her eyes said more than just that. Scarlet had matured dramatically since the death of her father. She took Scarlet's arm and walked casually out of sight and away from the soldiers, speaking as low as she could.

"We'll have to make our way to the mage without the hospitality of the humans. There's no time to waste now that we've been followed to the island."

"But, what about Vincent and Pala?" she replied with concern. Laya, in turn, gestured behind her.

"Vincent has it under control. Besides, looks like that shaman is working on it as we speak. Let us disappear."

Scarlet risked a glance behind her as Laya edged toward the ship's rim. At least six war ships lined the horizon. And at the rearmost part of the stern stood Pala, channeling something she couldn't see.

"Princess!" urged Laya, pointing to the craggy coast below the dock. Scarlet looked levelly at the elf, a look that was meant to remind her she was only a mere human.

"Go," Pala spoke in their minds, all the panic and calamity lost to her clear voice. "My spell shall allow you both to temporarily walk on the surface of the ocean in silence. Hurry!"

"Seize these foul pirates!" sounded the crass old captain from behind them. "And then ready our armada! We'll sink every ship before it reaches the harbor, now make haste!"

They leapt onto the ocean's undulating waves, landing solidly on them without even being seen. As if stone lay below shallow water, Scarlet stood up and began sprinting alongside her bodyguard. She took a final look at her other guard, who at that point held his own blade out in self-defense and mentally wished him and Pala luck; the two were probably much more capable than she wanted to imagine. As soon as they reached the dark and jagged rocks of the Theramore coast, they began climbing in shadows, Laya assisting the not-so-nimble princess as quickly as she could. On the outskirts of the port city stood many caves with promising destinations. They connected to a vast rocky cove that outlined all around the southern-side of the entire island, perhaps just the cover they could use. There was little time to spare as the rioting intensified, guns and swords erupting all around them.

"Those caves, Mi'lady," she pointed. And so did they enter, not wasting a single second.

The damp and cold cove darkened the more they ventured in, obscuring all. However, cannon-fire and clanging metal echoed all about, making it seem like a full-scale war had overtaken the island. Laya muttered something the princess couldn't hear, and with a swift pluck of her bow, shot a spell arrow of bright light onto the ceiling of the cave. Darkness illuminated into bright brown, jagged stone all around. Stalagmites decorated the cool passage and warned of harsh environments. But still did Scarlet want to progress.

"Do you think it will lead to Jaina?" she asked Laya in wonderment.

"With luck, maybe deeper into the city. Or maybe further out beneath the ocean bed . . ."

Scarlet grimaced at the graceful elf and saw morbid mirth on her fine, yet rugged features. The cunning marksman was the most trustworthy guide she could ever imagine, so it was a dumb question to have even asked. A well-versed elf could track down anyone or any place in a heartbeat, or so she was told.

The pair proceeded deeper into the labyrinthian maze of a cave, Laya lighting the way every couple of corners, until they hit a dead end. They stopped dead in their tracks as they peered down the opening that should have been their escape route. The two reached a cliff that led to a rather rough fall into the rocky sea below. Apparently, they had ascended through the cave, not descended.

"Now what?" Scarlet asked her guardian, hoping she would hold the answer. The answer, though, was not given by Laya, but by the crumbling noise that made the ground shake like an earthquake. The princess latched on to a protruding stone twice her size in order to maintain her own balance and saw her elven counterpart do the same. The wall beside them, it seemed, had toppled over by chance, just as they neared it . . .

Scarlet gave Laya a knowing look, and the elf only nodded in agreement. She stepped inside first, noting that the path continued on the same way it had initially; winding around and making them lose track of just where they were heading. Still, Laya persisted onward just as readily as before. Bow in one hand and her left hand resting on the hilt of her short sword, she appeared intensely focused.

_Glug . . . Whoosh . . . Glug . . ._

The two paused at the sounds that emanated throughout the entire cavernous pathway, Laya especially wary of the eerie liquid noise.

_Glug . . . Swoosh . . ._

It was undoubtedly the sound of water, however they were far from the coast, or so Laya thought.

"Laya, are we falling to sea level? It's hard to tell. Have we lost our way?"

"Your Highness, if there is one thing to never doubt, it is an elf's keen sense of direction. I know I was the only elf to have ever existed on Palatinus, with the exception of the deceased, but for both our sakes keep it in mind."

Surely enough the path continued, and according to Laya, they had headed more inland. The watery noise had suddenly amplified, whatever it had been, but it wasn't until she _smelled_ it, a salty and spiritually ephemeral scent, that Laya understood.

"Hold, Princess," she warned, putting her hand before her so as to halt her advance.

"What is it?" Scarlet asked, jarred by her sudden reaction.

Laya turned around abruptly, bow outstretched and arrow pointing somewhere Scarlet couldn't see. And the ambient liquid noises pitched up again, only it was practically upon them. Scarlet would not have noticed if she hadn't concentrated harder. Just in front of her eyes were three nearly transparent blobs of water, their rhythmic movements and their faint, azure color barely giving them away.

"Water elementals!" Laya proclaimed. "They must have followed us from the coast! Scarlet, stay behind me."

Even before Laya finished speaking, Scarlet had her blade unsheathed. The young princess stood her ground and maintained her own stance, the elf turning to her askance. However, as three more elementals approached, Laya decided to let it drop.

"I think it's time to test my Spellblade abilities," Scarlet said, taking a deep breath shortly after. She became acquainted with this unique form of swordplay in her homeworld by a talented warlock by the name of Saradin, the idea that she might one day need to use it never crossing her mind until now. Although it required the channeling of otherworldly energies and the memorization of various arcane texts, she was taught by the warlock that it was safer than practicing sorcery.

The water elementals, though sluggish, began their relentless advance, the assailed pair slowly backing into the unknown path ahead. Laya was the first to strike. She focused for a moment before unleashing her arrow, taking note of the red, beady eyes of the creatures before her. She only ever faced elementals a handful of times, though they were the earthen variety. Those had a pressure-point weakness just at the center of their massive floating bodies. Hoping they fell the same, she found her mark, channeled an electric magic force, and let the arrow sink. And it sank. The magic was not strong enough to even halt its advance. The arrow slid from front to back and fell out from the elemental's splashing rear, just as if it had struck a waterfall.

"Energies of reckless spirits, clap down on my foes with primordial might! Lightning Blade!"

At the princess' call, three orbs of unrestrained pure energy materialized and began to orbit around her blade feverishly. Tiny strands of electricity eagerly connected volts to steel, anxiously and audaciously spraying sparks every which way. Even with the threatening display of untamed energy, the elementals approached, oblivious. The closest one lifted what appeared to be amorphous arms and shot a blast of high-pressure liquid. Scarlet ducked just in time. The pump of water struck the wall behind her, the force so strong, it shook the cavern's borders causing shards of stone to rain down all around. She didn't care to imagine how she'd end up if it had managed a direct shot.

Somewhat agilely, she dipped low and around the first water blob's line of fire. Her blade hit home, forming a sagittal cut down the elemental. Although it was like striking air at first, a fresh wave of relief washed over her as the booming electricity went wild, popping and sizzling in a dazzling display of sparks and steam. The mindless creature let out a water-squelching moan before its remains splashed into a smoking puddle on the ground. Taking down the advancing few was just a matter of several more swift swings of Scarlet's blade. The worst one of them was capable of at close range was smacking her up with wavering pseudo limbs, the equivalent to being pummeled by an irritable murloc.

"Princess . . ."

She turned and noticed Laya had already disappeared around the corner from where they currently stood. A cool, ocean breeze whipped at the dampness of her face, a soothing sensation. That meant an exit. With a flicker of hope still residing within her heart, she turned the corner to see Laya standing in the midst of the breeze, strands of silver hair flowing freely across her own equally satisfied face. She pointed at the cave's end, the sight of sand, swaying trees, and rough ocean waves greeting her. And beside all of that stood a giant palace, taller than any of the other structures on the island.

"Do you suppose . . . ?" It had to be. It looked similar to the one from across the port. If it was truly what it appeared to be, they were very lucky.

"Yes," Laya replied, "let's hurry. Miss Proudmoore awaits."

* * *

"Father, what are you doing here?" Jedo asked quizzically. Xadek kept his composure the same, not even moving a muscle.

"I thought you'd be glad to see your old man," he said with a sharp undertone. "Hmph. Who would have known my own son would be here getting himself involved in a surreptitious world war? Jedo, you've lost your innocence."

Jedo opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What did he have to say to him? According to his current predicament, they would be considered enemies. However, why was he at the fort? Did he cause _all_ that commotion?

"Did you stir up the precinct guards?" Katreda asked, as if she knew what Jedo was thinking.

"Maybe. What would a bunch of radicals care if I did or didn't? Just as long as you can make it out of here alive with your trump card, Lady Miller, correct?"

"Father, what are you planning? What were you doing all this time after leaving Stormwind?!"

His answer had to wait, as the doors to the jail hall crashed open, and in stumbled several knights. Their attention turned to them, both Xadek and the infiltrators readied their weapons.

"Kill them all! Let none survive!" It seemed the knight in gold armor had caught up after all, except some of his fine, pristine aegis was sliced to scraps, and dark red blood streamed down to his leg. The general must have had a fierce fight, yet he appeared unscathed. Even at the ravaged man's orders, the knights hesitated, their legs buckling slightly as they paused.

"B-But, it's Lord Xadek! How can we strike down-,"

"Don't question my orders!" he spat, just as ferocious as in the latter fight. "He assaulted our own soldiers. Isn't it clear he is a traitor?!"

Seconds ticked by, the knights holding their position before the true general of their homeland. The gold-armored man let out a horrible cry of both pain and anger, his concern no longer lingering on his injuries, but on the infidels before him.

"I never thought the time would come, but I was commanded by my liege in such a quandary, and I shall obey!" He held in his palm a heart-shaped fruit of some sort, its pale violet color quite exotic around these parts. Jedo strained to see the object he shoved into his mouth, his heart sinking when he heard Katreda gasp and step forward.

"The fruit of the netherworld . . ."

The knight coughed heavily as if choking, his hands held at his throat. His own knights had their swords pointed at the dragoon, unsure of what it was he just did. A crimson aura surrounded him, picking him up off the ground and lifting him into the air. He smiled, a diabolical, savage grin even through the broken helm that was once both spotlessly beautiful and bestial. "Yes, true strength borrowed from the nether! The power Frohm insisted would help save my people! Still eager to face me, Xadek? You, too, boy?! Turncoats, like father, like son! I will slaughter you all!"

Sadistic laughter filled the cold jail even as the other two knights backed up closer to their true superior, their commander now turned demonic. The demon unsheathed his katana and charged with superhuman speed, cleaving one of the Watertight knights in half at the torso, blood and gore burning instantly as flames ate away at the rest of his body. Both halves crumpled pitifully to the ground, the smell of charred flesh filling the hallway.

"Richard!" cried the other knight in shock. "You . . . you bastard!"

Xadek pushed him away, impeding his vengeful counterattack. "Lead my son and his companions out of here!" he ordered, and the knight could do nothing but obey.

"Avenge my partner," he pleaded, "and be safe!"

"Father!" Jedo shouted as the knight ushered the others down the hall. Even as he did, the warped knight was screaming, his body snapping and shredding grotesquely. It was almost as if he was shedding his former self and into something totally new, something demonic, reminding him of the Stockades.

"He was not fit enough to receive that dark power," Xadek told Jedo, still facing his adversary. "So, in turn, he is sacrificed to bring forth an entity that is more . . . suitable to the darkness." Jedo was afraid, afraid of the way his father spoke and afraid of the strange mutation that was happening before his eyes. "The Ogres of legend."

Just then, Troi and Kamrik grabbed hold of Jedo's arms, pulling him away from the grotesque scene. "No, let me go! I can't leave my father alone! He won't make it!"

"Go, Jedo. A greater fate awaits you. I will see you again, rest assured."

Jedo caught one last look at the monster his father was going to face, the grey-skinned demon with its charred, crimson eyes and its long, impossibly large arms gripping the same katana like it was a simple knife. It reared its unearthly head up and with a cry like nothing Jedo ever heard, it lifted its weapon. Jedo was taken around the corner, away from the battle, the sound of metal-on-metal the only hint of what was happening between his father and the creature from hell.

"I'm sorry, Jedo, but we had no other choice," Troi blurted out as he brought him into a different chamber. Jedo did not respond. Rumbles began to boom throughout the entire fort, apparently from the demon creature further back. They sped through halls that descended down the spire-like sector that was the prison, everything around them spinning like a bad dream. The Watertight knight did his best fumbling with the keys and unlocking each corridor he could, while Kolark smashed those he took too long on. It seemed mere seconds before the nervous knight came to a complete stop.

"Damn," the leading knight muttered, sweat streaming down his face.

"What is it?" Katreda was attentive to what the knight was cursing about, and realized the situation they were in. The others, too, noticed the problem as the hall before them sprawled into view. It was a warden's station that led to their escape route, the stairway. However, the way was blocked by an archway that crumbled throughout the chaos within the fort, and not a single teleporter was in sight.

"What do we do now?" Kamrik cried.

"Can't you think of something, Lucrecia?" Gunther asked impatiently, more in frustration than fear. "You're the strategist, right? Well, strategize!"

As Gunther finished ranting, Jedo nudged him aside, stepping forward with powerful strides. He had his ornate blade in his hands, the sword somewhat different than before; its length had increased just as the hilt and width, making it glimmer with malice. Its designs and patterns lit up and runic symbols glowed on and off, as if something ancient within the blade was triggered. Jedo himself seemed more determined, if not still wracked by his confrontation with his father. The heaping pile of immovable stone was even too much for the tauren, Kolark, as Jedo urged him aside with a swift gesture. The hulking tauren did back away, unsure of the human's intention. Jedo brought his sword up above his head, and with one hand brought it down in front of the blockade. There was a strange hum somewhere in the room, one so cryptic, it sent shivers down each ones' spines. And just as eerie, the sword sent down a fire-red beam from seemingly nowhere, a large pillar of strange energy that seethed and screeched as it blew giant rocks into dust, and even that seemed to have sizzled away. The haunting hum also faded away with a tune that sounded like something from heaven . . . or maybe hell. And just like that, the path was cleared.

Jedo came to, and began breathing deeply, as if weary from exerting his own energy. Yet, he was able to move on with some ease. He clutched his still-wounded arm, the broken bone that was healed through white magic somehow weakened. Still he pressed onward with unfound courage.

The others had no time for questioning powers from the beyond, more intent on escaping the madhouse. Whatever had gotten into Jedo had probably very well saved their lives, after all. They bolted down the stairway, more rumbling erupting from all over the place now. They heard plenty of destruction and screams that could not come from the workings of just one sole demon, but many. There were also human shrills, death cries that they were forced to ignore, for their lives also hung by threads of seconds. They finally found an inactive teleporter, Kamrik getting right to work.

"This should lead to the first floor, where we can find a backdoor nearby," said the knight valiantly.

"That's great," Katreda said with a quick sigh. "Thanks, uh . . ."

"The name's Cius, but lets just get the hell out before the thank-you's. I still can't believe what's happening here!"

What lay in front of them momentarily halted their advance. There lay guards in their hundreds, gored to death by what Xadek called the "Ogres of Legend". They held in their hands enormous mauls the size of a whole human. One blow would obliterate anyone in their path, explaining the horribly contorted bodies of guards scattered all over.

"Oh, God," Katreda breathed. "Could this be . . . the beginning of Ogre Battle?"

"Make a run for it, there's no way we can take 'em all!" At Kolark's call, they all dashed after Cius, their ticket out of the Fort Watertight hell.

"Wait," called out Lucrecia, just as the group reached the desired doorway. "There are others still alive in the corridors! We can't just leave them here to be sacrificed by these monsters."

"I'd normally agree," Katreda began, "but we may soon end up the sacrifices if we don't hurry!"

They entered the main hall of the fort, a large room that was once decorated as a military base before the demons struck. They seemed to have materialized from everywhere in the giant edifice, many of them arriving too as the dead bodies lay broken already. They turned eager eyes to them, lusting for their own death cries. A quick glance behind would reveal the ogres slowly lumbering their way over to enjoy themselves as well.

"Great, surrounded," Gunther murmured under his breath.

"How did they all get here? Just moments ago this place was swarming with Stormwind's elite guards. How could they have been ambushed and defeated so easily?"

Katreda's question was answered by none other than Jedo, the young man seeing a connection. "My father. They were on his tail. Wherever he had been, whatever it was he was doing, he led them straight here." His tone was unusually calm, with a hint of pain or despair.

"Jedo . . ." whispered Katreda sympathetically.

The demonic warriors made their advance, the ones from the main hall dashing with abnormal speed. These were more human-like than the massive, grotesque ogres, except for their mask-like faces that seemed a dull, tan rocky skin. Their eyes glowed a hideous bright red, further serving their fiendish appearance. Ragged long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that ran down monolithic muscular backs, their superhuman bodies covered in dark-colored leather vestments and plate mails likely from their hellish abodes. The monsters were extremely agile, flying from across the room to the fresh living mortals.

"These are the wretched 'goblins' of our world!" Katreda blurted just as the fights began. "How did they manage to get here?"

"Don't know, don't care," Troi shouted, "I just want them gone!"

With a swing of her sword, Katreda made the first contact, sliding her blade down in a vertical line. Summoning the power of holiness, her sword seemed to extend outward in a bright white flash. "Disperse all shadows in search for sinners, Berthe, mighty Goddess . . ." At the last of her chants, the flash momentarily halted the demons' advances. This in turn signaled the attack. Jedo voraciously hacked the first goblins to bits with little problems. Farther goblins hesitated, warily eying his movements. Before they could even make a move, Jedo summoned that same mystic beam, tearing the demons apart effortlessly. However, the others didn't have it so easy. With their extraordinary strength and speed, the goblins were formidable foes. Armed with unusual short swords, they charged, each swing, though well blocked or parried, tossed and pushed them around. This allowed very little time for retaliation, buying time for the lumbering grey-skinned terrors to take their turn. Gunther played a brave game of footwork, dodging strikes left and right and counterattacking with his dagger. Still it wasn't enough to take down the creatures. Unless he could elude them and attack with his bow, he could do little else. Troi, weaponless as he was, did his best holding off against three of the little terrors at one time. With his temporary shield, he bided for the right moment, and when he saw that Katreda had felled a goblin, jammed the broad side of the shield into the marauding attackers, creating just enough space for him to maneuver. Troi dashed for the weapon the dead goblin held and began his own offensive. Kolark, on the other hand, could not utilize his gun at such close range, thus encouraging him to use sublime force. He bull-rushed a gang of unsuspecting goblins, who attacked Gunther like a pack of starving lions on a struggling gazelle.

When nearly all of the goblin warriors were cut down, it was Katreda who spoke first in a panicky voice. "Where's Lady Miller?!"

"Kamrik is missing, too," Gunther added.

"No time!" called Troi, who began to face the growling ogres, their footsteps as relentless as their pursuit. And just as they looked for a spot to fall back into, the front door entrance was smashed open by yet another mob of inexorable demons. It appeared they were more than just outnumbered; they were trapped.


	14. War in Felwood

-Chapter 14-

Tyrande's plan to reduce the orc numbers before their eventual assault had been cataclysmic. The elves had been quick, hiding amongst the trees as they fired relentlessly at the unsuspecting orcs, stamping out at least near half their forces. The green creatures fell like flies, but the swarm continued their pestilence. The attack still did not hinder their brutish fervor. Still they marched with drooled lips, crazed eyes, and their barbaric battle axes. Thus, her next goal had been to avert their attention and lure them within the darkness of the woods. It was a desperate plan, but one nonetheless. She needed to do everything in her power to buy her encampment time to continue construction. However, the green-skinned marauders had been all too intent, charging with a bloodlust Tyrande recognized all too well. She needed yet another plan and quick. To make matters worse, the elves soon found themselves ambushed by several of the demons, muscularly built short monsters with decent strength and agility that emerged from seemingly nowhere. They were still no match, though. The huntresses, archers, and sentinel blades had nimbly and efficiently finished them off with ease, but that lost them precious time, time that meant the difference between life and death, victory and defeat. Her company arrived at camp to find Elyana's forces locked in battle.

Many already lay dead as the green-skins fought voraciously alongside their unlikely allies; clubs and axes fell upon the elven defenders with absolutely no remorse or mercy. Riders mounted abroad shadowy beasts charged forward. Crimson-skinned trolls flung spears dripping with black magic. The night elf warriors and archers fought back with everything they had, but with the Ancients slowly rising and their base half assembled, it was really just a matter of time before the battle would turn one-sided. And to think, the battle at the encampment would have been a disaster had the huntress, Elyana, and her forces not been there. And now, she was dead. Fallen in combat for her cause, so valiantly. Tyrande noticed her crumpled form bearing the crest of her position in the Sentinels. In her rage and sorrow, summoned forth Elune's wrath, the moonfire striking down and incinerating the fel creatures. And just as things were going in their favor, the mountain giants appeared, hulking rocky beings that unrooted gnarled dead trees with incredibly wide hands. The giant allies wielded these trees as their own weapons, using nature to fight off the destroyers of nature. Several swings and there were green and gray bodies flying lifelessly across the bloody fields and reddened skies. The tides shifted.

Even as the majority of the disorganized enemy army lay sprawling dead on the ground, the last of the orcs and demons fought to the very end, sparing not a single raider. Zeda must have been mocking her. Arrows and glaives plunged into skulls and chest cavities with swiftness and utter ease. Scalding blood spilled from their foes and onto elf arms and legs. Demons armed with swords, claws, and mauls were decapitated or de-limbed to death. The last of them flopped pitifully to the ground in puddles of their own lifeblood. Tyrande's trance waned as she once again focused on the sea of bodies, both foe and ally. Elyana lay not too far away, pale and still, her head viciously hacked from her shoulders. A bitter emotion took hold of her for just a few seconds, then ardor mingled with outrage, strengthening her resolve. She couldn't allow herself to become the very entity that she now fought. However, the brave Kaldorei would never be forgotten.

"May Elune guide us, for this night shall we dismantle their demonic constructs of desecrated woods. Vengeance for Elune and her fallen children! Onward!"

The night elf defenders cheered their approval, shouting out quick prayers for success. After Tyrande rallied the last of Elyana's forces, she commanded Ash'alah forward, trying her hardest not to lay her eyes again on the dead. Stalwartly, she navigated the forest as skillfully as the elves had always. It appeared not even the corrupted creatures of the woods had dared partake in battle, the call of these demons darker than even that of their master's. Dark and shrouded with untamed magic, the Felwood was constantly trying to entice the unafflicted, to make them feel the hatred and burning that demons always reveled in. It meant nothing to the night elves as they marched in undulating pathways through the corrupted woodlands. Not much longer than a few moments did arrows begin to fly at them, darting past in high numbers from behind trees east. Thin, cadaverous demoness archers revealed themselves, the red glints in their eyes the most obvious. Relentlessly, they sprayed forth a mist of deadly rain, striking the crusading elves down as they marched on. Those unlucky enough to survive from just a minor gash from the missiles died shortly after from the poison on their tips. Many of them writhed and twitched as the caustic stuff seethed through their innards and out the other ends. The elves died in their dozens.

"Fight back in Elune's name," she shouted. Yet, just as she did, a barrage appeared from the diseased canopies above. Indeed, arrows rained down on the marauders, an unexpected salvation.

"Priestess," came a voice from somewhere in the vast canopy, one of many elves that had been shadowmelded, "hurry forward! We've got the rear. You have got to stop these abominations before they take the woods." No sooner did Tyrande realize that it was an agent from Shandris' division, the Sentinel's skilled Stalkers.

"Is Shandris here?" she questioned with a motherly scorn as the skirmish slowly tipped in their favor. The general of the Sentinels, in many ways like a daughter to the priestess, had a stubborn side to her; the order given was to remain in Darnassus in case of an attack. Tyrande could not simply allow her to do anything so reckless.

"No, Priestess, she had arranged for us to act as surveillance in these forests, but what for she did not clearly state," she speedily replied. "Shandris was worried for you, though. Fandral, on the hand, desisted we come."

"Very well. Remain here and strike any who enter the grove we've settled just a ways south of here. We shall not return until those monsters are buried."

"Say no more," she saluted, disappearing into the shrouded darkness.

The trees began to slowly clear as an opening gave way to tall wooden constructs, their peaks barbed and treacherous. Bunkers lined the perimeter all around as the elves made their way for the enemy base's western flank. Torches were lit high into the air, illuminating the forever darkened woods. A rich magenta mist emanated eerily throughout the quiet campsite. The elves were not easily fooled, though.

Tyrande ordered the giants in first, their enormous girth able to withstand physical attacks much more readily. They charged in, trees in hand, their footsteps great thunderbolts colliding onto the ground. Trolls on lookout flung spears and javelins at the mountain-folk, but the projectiles only snapped futilely against their rocky hides. A few lucky shots managed to merely cling on the rockmen's joints, yet the attack was still ineffective. They reached the outlying walls within seconds. With several heavy swings, the western wall disintegrated, caving inward and crashing onto bunkers below in a gratifying display of rock, soot, and torn wood. However, what Tyrande found within those walls were creatures of which she'd never laid eyes on in all her years. They emerged, nearly as large as the giants themselves, unusual mauls in their grips that glowed a fiendish hue. With unnatural speed they reached the giants first, crushing their stone hides with powerful swings. Gray and vine-covered limbs broke away effortlessly, leaving the giants defenseless against the horde of demons. Even as they crumbled away, though, they used their massive bodies as a weapon, crushing foes beneath them. It was their final stand. Fiends and giants both fell broken to the blood-paved ground.

The elves joined the fray just as readily, Sentinel blades taking the front-lines and slaying the horrid creatures with their curved swords and glaives. Archers remained in the backdrop of the battle, raining down vengeance through piercing arrows. Steel cut through warped fel leathers, then through purple-gray flesh. Arrows plunged into hearts filled with dark lust. They channeled their flaming arrows onto the gruesome scene, incinerating the flailing abominations until nothing but charred remains were left. All the same, elves were smashed by mauls and hammers, their bodies falling brokenly onto the crimson fields. For every five the elves slew, they lost eight. Tiny winged demons danced from watch tower to watch tower, draining all hope as they drank the souls of the dying with savage glee. The orcs emerged shortly during the onset of battle, green and muscular bodies fuming with forbidden energies. They rode not on worgs, but three-headed monstrous canines, both of them teeming with bloodlust for the elves. The first wave met the elves and the remaining giants, both sides now equally matched. Axes came down and clove elven flesh. Canine teeth from three heads eviscerated panthers and their riders. Shaman stood behind, casting spells of the unholiest of spirits, filling the battlefield with appalling visages of blood, gore, and dark entities.

"We'll never take them all, Priestess," called a higher-ranking archer from behind her. "I beseech you, call back our troops!"

"Never," Tyrande responded. "This is for my people. I will not accept anything other than victory in combat!"

The priestess of Elune drew forth her innermost strength and channeled the might of the mighty Goddess. She prayed to her with all that she knew, relying on the certainty that Elune would not forsake her fellow night elves, that she had witnessed the goddess' deeds all those thousands of years ago. Tyrande understood that Elune praised such righteousness and, after opening her eyes, unleashed that wrath.

Moonfire rained down as she cast her Starfall spell on the demonically possessed, the monstrous death-bringers that slew the defenders of life. These bright, white fireballs rained down judgement on the entire field. Not a single dark being had been spared. However, while the demons fell, their bodies singed by the holy bombardment, the orcs had merely been wounded. They appeared mortal wounds, yet still they moved, groaned, their suffering a horrible aftertaste to the priestess. The idea that they were, all in all, still victims of the cursed demons did not fall well on her. And neither did the fact that they made a pact with them justify the means. Still, it was something that had to be done; Elune surely understood.

"Let us dismantle this hellish abode," Tyrande said wearily. Then, that was when she heard the shuffling, the movement of one of the dying. It was an orc grunt, a demon's lackey crawling forward, his eyes intent on murder.

"W-We will not . . . fall! This land is ours!"

Though their kin lay all around them dead, their base torn and lit afire, all hope burning in that inferno, they still chose to fight on? Tyrande turned to face him, her expression grim. Even her tiger steed was incredibly wary. Suddenly, one by one, each orc imploded, their bodies impossibly distorting. Muscle and viscera was exposed as they turned inside-out. Glistening bone even shown until out crawled bloody demons, horned and horrible. Resembling the satyrs that still haunted her dreams, her past relived, they cried out for death. They grabbed hold of axes laying beside their fallen owners and dashed to the field of battle without even giving it a thought. Two elves were caught off guard, the consequences fatal. Tyrande shot forth an arrow just in time to slay a charging satyr, the creature falling back several feet in a spray of blood.

As she maintained a cautious stance, she was suddenly knocked off her tiger, the black and white feline crying out in pain. The world around her whirled in dark, insidious colors. She hit the ground and tumbled to the corrupted soil, the air sucked out of her lungs. Tyrande lifted her face, her vision blurry from the flying dirt surrounding her. Her eyes began to see double, her head trying to adjust to the harsh fall off Ash'alah. And that was when she saw it, a sight, although blurred, that would forever afflict her. The demons slew and consumed the soul of her beloved tiger. The creature tried to fight back, but it was no match for three of the satyr demons. At that moment, the white tiger Tyrande had grown up with, that had been enchanted to live over ten millennia with her, was gone.

"No! Ash'alah!"

Tyrande pushed herself up, but her limbs protested. Though she intended to rush up and obliterate them, to save her tiger in her denial, she could only manage a shaky crawl to her feet.

"No," she repeated, her voice drained of energy. She raised her bow and flung three arrows, all somehow finding their marks. The satyrs fell just as their brethren did, writhing. Her remaining forces gathered around their battered leader, aware that the waves of demons would not yet end so easily.

"Priestess . . . this battle does not bode well."

As the Sentinel blade finished her statement of despair, there came high pitched squeals from somewhere behind the woods. It was a sound so familiar. Suddenly, the trees glistened in sparkling light, and out shined the fairy dragons, small and wily creatures flying out in their twenties. Even more surprising was the appearance of the cryptic, yet reliable chimaeras, giant three-headed beasts flying forth with mighty roars. The final sight reclaimed all the hope and honor to the ravaged elves, a scene of legends past. Above all allies and demons and burning structures soared the dragons of ancient times, the elusive Red Dragonflights. Broad, fire-red wings flapped gracefully atop enormous, yet lithe scaly bodies. Their reptilian faces showed of both ferocious savagery and elegant beauty. Arms and feet were equipped with razor-sharp talons that promised scathingly painful death. Dozens swarmed over the blood-laden scene, red angels of retribution.

"Alexstrasza . . ." whispered the High Priestess of Elune, rekindling memories of the horrible battles waged alongside the dragon queen thousands of years. One dragon landed before her, its intelligent eyes meeting hers. He was obviously the one in command of the dragon saviors. He spoke to her, the night elves long-since able to comprehend the tongue of dragons during the events of the Sundering.

"Greetings, Priestess," he began, a voice crude, cordial, and ancient. "A pity we must meet at such a lamenting event. My name is Axtroz of the Red Dragonflight. The Dragonqueen has sent me and several of my brethren to cleanse the taint. We have been keeping tabs on the recent events that affected mainly the mortal world. Now, I'm afraid, it deals with us all. A common foe of ours interferes with the balance."

"The Black Dragonflight?" Tyrande questioned uncertainly.

"Yes. We must act fast, Priestess. But first, you must refreshen your army, for weary warriors make only for a liability. Leave the rest to your new allies in this fight and return to your grove."

"Absolutely, but . . ." Tyrande trailed off as she witnessed the prime antagonist of all that had happened. "Zeda!"

"Who? That old crone?" Axtroz turned to the visage of the strange hooded woman, feeling a bit uneasy. "Tyrande, leave her to me."

"No, Axtroz. I shall finish her. She has ruthlessly slain my people and brought suffering to countless beings of the wilds. Let her slayer come from the moonlit skies, from a daughter of the Goddess!"

The crone slipped away into the cover of the woods due east of the war site, disappearing like a phantom. She pursued her with indignation. Steadless, Tyrande hurried across the field, hardly even noticing the red dragons firing their torrent of fiery breath onto the orc outpost. Chimaeras filled the skies, their own triple breaths vaporizing the air before them. Demons that poured from the northern woods were incinerated before they could make a move, their march forward suicidal. Faerie dragons faded in and out of existence, channeling fel-mana against their casters. Still, Tyrande paid them no heed, managed to brush aside the explosions of battle, the deathcries of creatures from hell. Any foe who dared to follow her were smitten by moonfire. All ahead of her were set ablaze by searing arrows, the leader of the night elves relying on her trust in her fellow sisters.

Once in the woodlands, all noise seemed to lull down eerily. The forest just barely crossed through the Bloodvenom River, accursed stream of the satyrs. Navigating through with the dexterity and grace of the elf she was, she hurried. Furtherways down past the mountain range, Tyrande reminisced, stood Mt. Hyjal, the home of the once prominent World Tree Nordrassil. The scarring memories ceased as the woods opened into a dark clearing she had never before took notice of. It appeared to be a grove tainted by either the Third War or by the demons led by Zeda. Up ahead stood a lone cave. It did not appear to extend deep, but rather as a sheltered cove. And right before it stood the rune-cloaked sorceress, her back turned to Tyrande. The priestess held her bow outward, pulled the string that held the killing missile -and paused as the demoness slowly faced her. She wore the same confident and wicked smile.

"Welcome, Tyrande. Today is a very special occasion." She chuckled maliciously, one of her hands keeping the hood of her cloak well around her face. "Shoot if you must. You die here, priestess, if you dare think you can kill me."

"I will slay you, Zeda. I have promised it to my people, to the fallen, to those you murdered!"

"Elune can't save you," she replied flatly. "No goddess or god can. Only you can save yourself. But you have made a fatal mistake, for I have bigger plans for you, my dear."

Tyrande's arms began to waver, her sight failing her. She struggled to fight the strange sensation, noticing vaguely that the crone pulled out a shimmering blood-red gem from her robes. It seemed to sparkle more and more profusely. Then, a great portal rose within the cave's interior. The cave shattered like glass, awakening Tyrande from her delirium. Bolts of lightning zapped the portal in a horrifying display of grotesque power. The portal grew higher. The skies darkened. Tyrande's eyes began to draw tears as the wild winds tore at her face. Out poured a most terrifying revelation; undead rushed out alongside the very demons she had slain. Gruesome and rancid, the bony creatures shambled toward battle. Ghostly figures as well as Nerubians marched on an unholy campaign. They raced outward throughout the entirety of Felwood, a rampage of death and carnage. She could do nothing. They paid her no mind, a minuscule ant compared to the rest of the hive they sought. And at the portal's side stood Zeda, her smile widening at her own treachery. Swiftly, Tyrande flung an arrow at her, one charged with divine energies. Zeda saw this coming, a futile last attempt. She reversed the projectile, corrupting it with demon magic. It would strike the emotionally slain priestess and explode, dark powers that would tear her apart. Yet, it had not. The arrow missed its mark. All flashed before her, colors of red and black, and bright lightning disappearing as new colors, new senses overtook her. Before she could even think, before she could wonder, she only saw green and white colors. They were serene, peaceful. Had she truly not been struck by the arrow? Is this what death was like? No pain, just a loftiness . . . ? She felt so free, spiritually, physically, mentally. So this was death? Something Tyrande never gave any consideration to, this was her last thought before falling into a strange slumber.

* * *

-Northrend, the Frozen Throne . . .

It was exquisite. Death reigned all around the world. It was the beginning of many more deaths, Arthas realized. The Lich King had no time to revel, though. The "New Plague" was finally completed, a prototype that would become just as legendary as the original Plague. It needed a more distinctive name, one that would run chills down the spines of its future victims.

_Death Blood,_ rasped Ner'zul's conscience mind.

A suitable name. Being a more virulent and concentrated substance, one's former blood would eventually be replaced entirely by this "Death Blood". In fact, the Lich King used actual plague-infused blood in all his experiments, allowing him to get the best results in his newest creations. _Death Blood_ was perfect, simple, yet ominous enough.

It was becoming easier and easier to cooperate simultaneously with Ner'zul, Arthas noticed. Everything seemed accomplished much quicker. Quality and success was amplified. And more importantly, his plans were seeing fruition. Arthas was filled with satisfaction when he found Naxxramas laying haphazardly on the eastern coast of Northrend. Apparently, Kel'thuzad had failed in holding off Sylvanas' wrath. However, the true prize lay within the halls of the Necropolis. Naxxramas held a treasure they'd stumbled upon that only became clear when the Lich King managed to seep into the thoughts of that peculiar man, Vuelmont. It seemed nearly impossible, but Vuelmont's mental defenses weren't as fortified as he imagined. Like skimming through an encyclopedia, he found several crucial pages that told of a possible victory, should everything go accordingly. Even now, he still contemplated the end results.

_Very probable. In fact, that flawed portal gem may still harbor enough energy to do its job. With my affinity with the arcane, I could enter his domain and . . ._

Arthas chuckled, an emotionless laugh that came when he realized he had thought as one. Perhaps he was finally his own entity, not two separate ones, as was with Ner'zul. And what perfect timing. That red gem Kel'thuzad encountered sang of great powers within. And so he told the king of it and kept it safe in Naxxramas' deepest halls. Who knew what defenses the Lich lord had set up, however, none would stand in Arthas' way. It would be his.

He stood from his frozen laboratory, a chillingly dark lair beneath the Frozen Throne he had created. It wouldn't take too long to navigate the toppled-over Necropolis. He suddenly paused all thoughts. Someone was entering. This intruder had teleported in, for the Lich King would have sensed any other among all of Northrend with his powers.

"Vuelmont, have you some news for me?" his cold voice hummed.

"Yes, some good, some bad," came his reply, simple and showing no signs of fear. He should have, for Arthas had no tolerance for failure. "It seems not only has the rogue demon, Illidan, escaped, but so did the night elf priestess."

"Is that it?" he responded almost with a laugh. "Let them escape, death shall ensnare them someday. What is the good news?"

"Zeda has opened the first portal."

"Hmm, I _did_ sense my subjects traversing a deliciously tainted land. Where?"

"Felwood, my king."

Arthas shivered out of excitement, a subtle reaction. He finally turned to the seemingly young man, noting the same gratified smile on his face. Their current position was greater than anticipated.

"So, here's a question for you, now that we are comrades," the Lich King began. "Where are you planning to go from here?"

"Well, I was thinking you would do best here, on your frontier. I shall finish my work in Outland, taking care of exterminating the elves, orcs, and other useless cretins. Once the time is right, my plot to permanently stem off the Burning Legion from Outland's portals will see completion."

"You're worried about Sargeras, are you?" Arthas' words bit deeper than the glacial ice around them. "I have to wonder what it is you hope to see in the end of all this scheming. Although I must admit, I do not see my place in all this after you succeed."

"Please, do not misjudge me. I can tell what you hope to accomplish; the spread of your undead plague throughout all of Azeroth. Mine is similar. I shall take what should have rightfully been mine. My talents, powers, and knowledge are far superior than all of my own world. I should have claimed that world."

"World?" Arthas played, acting intrigued. "Which world is this?" Vuelmont seemed hesitant, as if the conversation had suddenly gotten a bit more personal.

"Gaia, a world ruled by 'gods', protectors just like yours, only the gods of Gaia are omnipotent and ever-present."

"You are comparing these 'gods' to the Titans of Azeroth, are you not?"

The sorcerer only smiled wider, perhaps amused at Arthas' deepening curiosity. "There is much more in common between our worlds than anybody cares to admit. Truths that could make the difference between victory and failure in anyone's agenda. Just make sure you sift through the correct information . . . my ambitious king."

Suddenly, two forms emerged from behind the magician. They were thin and lithe, and apparently not human.

"We return, Master," announced one of them, a woman with a soft, yet cool voice. She had flowing hair with the red-tinted color of volcanic ash. Her expression was placid.

"We have dealt with the Marquis, as per your order," informed the other woman, her voice sensual and collective. She had short hair ending at her neck, the same color as her counterpart. The look on her face was identical to the other. They easily could have passed for twins. They wore black skin-tight outfits foreign to this world, though they seemed like lethal agents of sorts. "Your next request?"

"Ah, good. Arthas, these are my private operates, Celia and Leda."

"Hmm, they aren't human are they?" Arthas questioned with knowing nod.

"How very astute of you. Yes, they are no longer human. In fact, my method of acquiring such agents would befit you, a dabbler of the dark arts of necromancy."

"Excellent," the Lich King exclaimed, the knowledge of the agents leaking out from Vuelmont. Holding on to the pilfered thoughts, Arthas thought of his next plans, the gem in Naxxramas. "I have much work to get done. If you don't mind, we'll discuss the details at a more convenient time."


	15. To Become a Uniter

-Chapter 15-

Fort Watertight shuddered as the demons pursued their fleeing prey down into the depths of the dungeons. Chips of granite gneiss rained down from the moist ceilings above, either a signal that the place was falling apart or that the monsters were gaining on them. Unfortunately, it was probably the only safe place yet to go through; not to mention that Jedo had just strode over to it casually in the midst of the ambush. Up on the first floors, the demons punched through doors, tore through walls, even jumped in through windows above. All seemed lost. However, there were voices down the hall leading into the lower levels, the last location any would expect to venture in. Katreda led her comrades down anyway, considering that maybe with Jedo's strange newfound powers, they may yet be saved. Besides, the demons had a hold on nearly every possible entrance and exit. It was a shame about Kamrik and Lucrecia, but wherever they went, they went by choice. There was little time to look for them, let alone mourn them.

"Hey, voices, this way," Gunther urged, the bowsman pointing to the left passage from the possible four. The dungeon wound itself into some maze. It was an obstacle just to navigate around. However, the faint sounds of people whispering had shortened the trek through the cold and dank labyrinth, likely designed to imprison those who were meant to suffer and die in obscurity.

Katreda, Gunther, Troi, Kolark, and the guardsman together made their way through the maze using their ears. Cius, the man Xadek entrusted to look after his son, had a torch lit as he took the rear for the group. His eyes displayed a horror that veteran soldiers often expressed. One of torments, of seeing comrades and fellow legionnaires slaughtered firsthand. He was far too young for that look, though.

Keeping her eyes open, but her ears even sharper, Katreda led the tracked quarries around a dim, but slightly lit bend in the corridor. Voices intensified into something like hot panic. Proceeding carefully, they turned the corner to meet a pair of pike-wielding partisans, each of their expressions grim.

"Hold, we are not your enemies," the blond-haired paladin attempted, feeling very silly. Just about an hour or so ago, she _had_ been their enemy as well as an intruder. Suddenly, the tables turned. No longer did faction matter. What mattered was that they needed help getting the hell out. Still, the guards of the makeshift haven hesitated, but eventually yielded with reluctance; there was no reason to strike down anyone willing to help out the cornered fighters. They stepped through, feeling great unease as they passed soldiers and knights horribly injured by the demon invaders. They had to wonder if these survivors suspected them of anything foul as they lifted eyes filled with trauma and paranoia. It wouldn't take long to connect their arrival with the demons'. Why had they been allowed passage at all, they pondered.

"Mind yourself around the Lady," added a rather heavy-browed guard. When the group turned to face him, they heard a mildly familiar voice among the people of the refuge. It was becoming clear, now.

The part of the dungeon they walked through resembled something like a guardsmen's quarters. Weapons and armor hung all around, two large wooden desks were splayed haphazardly at corners of the room. The wounded lay on the many bunks littered around the room, priests standing beside them trying to heal the flesh from both physical disease and shadow magic. Some even had no choice but to lay over quilts on the floor. A rather peaceful ambient light kept the room barely visible, a soothing thing in this fortress from hell. By the time they reached the end of the long rectangular room was when they spotted them. Kamrik and Lucrecia stood there speaking to a legionnaire, their faces not so pleased. Kamrik's face lit up as he saw them approach. He walked over, leaving the tactician to the guard.

"You're all alive! I'm so glad!" He was given looks of concern, scorn, and confusion, making him feel like a mere kid again. The young roguish boy returned an apologetic look.

"Kamrik, what's going on?" Katreda asked worriedly.

"Yeah, why'd you leave us back there?" Troi questioned next.

"Probably saw the 'tactician' fly the coup and did the same," jested Gunther, crossing his arms in a nettled stance.

"See that man she's talking with?" Kamrik began. "He heard the commotion earlier, but was told to keep within the lower levels and look after the prisoners. After several guards came down here half-dying from unnatural wounds, he made for the first level and saw us battling in the main hall. Lucrecia, not much of a fighter, caught sight of him and followed him into these dungeons. I followed because I was worried to leave her down there alone. Before I knew it, I found myself down here with all these trapped people. Lucrecia, or 'the Lady' as she's referred to by these guys, began speaking with him ever since.

"From what I heard, it seems Lucrecia is well-liked by them, but why, I can't say. I think she has something up her sleeve."

The others paused for a moment, taking in their environment, hundreds of thoughts racing through their minds. At last, someone else spoke. It was Lucrecia.

"You are all safe. I thought as much, considering how far you've all gotten to free me."

"Don't think your flattery has any effect on us, lady," Gunther retorted.

"I meant no ill feelings when I said that. Really, you all went through much to find me. The question is, do you trust me enough to use me?"

"What do you mean?" Kolark inquired, his large brows furrowing. The tactician's eyes narrowed, however, not in a petulant manner.

"Well, I'm a tactician. Tacticians give advice to their military leaders. Although that is what I do best, I have no qualms about turning against anyone if I do not believe what he is doing is in the best interest of the people."

"Okay," Katreda began, sounding rather confused. "We were told by a reliable source that you are someone we could really trust to start up a coalition, a battalion of freedom fighters, so to speak. We need to unite as many of the factions on Azeroth as we can, before the Ogre Battle truly begins."

"Ogre Battle, hmm?" Lucrecia appeared lost in thought for a moment as she considered what Katreda had just said.

"Um, can we please hurry?" Troi broke in. "Those demons will find us at any minute! What are we gonna do?" Lucrecia immediately snapped out of her reverie and focused on the situation at hand. Her expression remained as neutral as it had been earlier. She kept her tome close to her chest, her fingers resting on some page as if she had been bookmarking the part she had last read. She spoke at last, her voice cool and calculating.

"Fine. I shall lead us out of here. But first, you must let me know. Are you sure you want me along? Thanks to me, the last commander I worked for is now sitting in a building like this in a ten-by-ten cell. That was completely my choice. And I will betray you, too, if I feel you are doing anything that goes against my beliefs. With that knowledge, do you still seek me out?"

"Yes," came a voice from somewhere in the shadows of the room. It was Jedo, his composure somewhat retained. The boy still seemed tense since the situation with his father and all. However, he seemed . . . himself. "We do."

"Jedo," Katreda managed to say even as many questions formed in head, but that was all that came out.

"Good," the tactician affirmed, "let us get started, then. The captain of the guard down here, the man I just finished speaking with, said he had just three more charges left of dwarven explosives hidden in the storage room just beyond that door. Because that is all we have to use, we need to utilize them as efficiently as we can. So Troi, Kamrik, Gunther, I need you three to plant them. I have chosen three prime locations for the charges to be set off. The first one will be used for offensive purposes. It shall also be the means to cut the enemy off from our vulnerable location. And as for the last two, they shall be used for our escape. Kamrik, you and the others go to the captain and he'll quickly demonstrate how to set off the explosives. Any questions?"

"You've seemed to have given this some fair thought," Katreda replied, a desperate tone to her voice. She unsheathed her sword and pointed toward the entrance to the room. "But all plans have a chance of failure, so I want to be there in case that chance comes."

"I was just about to say," Lucrecia added, "unless we waste too much time, this plan should be a success. I am not perfect, of course, but one thing a tactician always must have is confidence. We cannot afford any slip-ups, not even a chance."

"What if the charges fail to activate?" Gunther pointed out. "What if Kamrik screws everything up?" Before Kamrik could defend himself, Lucrecia responded coolly.

"That is already taken care of."

Six mages hovered over toward where the captain stood, awaiting orders. Gunther placed one hand under his prickly chin, wondering.

"I sure hope you're as skilled as you are cocky," he said sounding less jokingly than usual.

"Trust me," she simply stated, holding up her bulky blue tome. "My father taught me well."

By the time the bombs were placed, everyone reached their posts. At the beginning of the maze-like entrance, the path was cleared. Any wandering fiends were quickly dispatched by the offense group, led by Katreda and Kolark. The bomb was set on a particular supporting pillar hand-picked by Lucrecia, a rather sturdy one. The group barred the entrance and awaited there with two mages in case of a breach. However, the barricade of chairs, desks, and cell doors would hold long enough through the procedure. Kamrik, one of the designated bomb techs, stood idly by, awaiting the signal for the go-ahead.

Meanwhile, Gunther and Troi finished preparing their charges. The dwarven bombs were placed at a certain wall in one of the jails within the maze of dungeon hallways. Lucrecia's rationalization of the location still stood as a mystery. However, none had any time to dispute it; she would either lead them to salvation or to their overshadowing doom. Regardless, the crew was certain that her plan would at least take them away from this deathtrap. She stood among the many anxious soldiers and spellcasters of the fortress, once a prisoner and now acting as a savior alongside the invaders. A strange position it was, but when faced with life or death, losing one's soul to the monsters from hell, one would choose life. As the bomb-setters completed their assembling, Lucrecia walked forward to view their handiwork. With a calm, steady nod, she approved. She appeared determined that everything would go as she pictured in her head, a conclusion that unnerved Katreda and her compatriots. Still, they stood embattled.

"Everything is set," Lucrecia stated almost in a whisper. "Let us bring down these walls."

The captain of the jailors let out a yell that resonated down the rest of the halls. With that cry from afar, Katreda and Kolark readied themselves. Kamrik set the charge off, a light ring signaling the countdown. The offensive team stood a good distance away. The next signal would be the detonation itself. All they could do is wait patiently among the crashes that came against the sealed entrance. Dust rained on the faces of the disquieted survivors, giving a feeling of an impending fate. Demons fought voraciously against the barricade to feast on the blood and flesh of mortals. It took sheer nerve to stand by such a brutal assault and simply hold position. The bomb continued to tick, each second a dragging eternity. There was a prolonged moment, the monotonous ticking of the bomb suddenly dulling and then absent altogether.

"Why isn't it working?" Kolark asked nervously, not shifting his eyes off the trembling barricade.

"Don't worry," Katreda whispered, "it's dwarven technology. I'd panic if were gnomish, or even goblin."

After a few minutes of no results, Katreda had a change of plans. It looked like she would have to rely upon the mages' skills, the tactician's fallback strategy. She turned to them, a young woman and an older man, and nodded.

"Blast it! We've wasted enough time."

It was a very dangerous chance to take; together with arcane fires, the bomb could turn even deadlier, incinerating everything in double the radius. With little choices left, it was a done deal. The two mages began concentrating, mumbling a spell that was emanating from their arms. At that same moment, the barricade crumbled apart, revealing rabid claws and arms and other appendages. Bare-fanged faces fit through torn wood and eyed their quarry feverishly. At that same moment, yells cried out and swords were unsheathed. Kolark began firing at the bomb with his rifle, but the steel casing was still too resilient. It took much more heat to detonate it. Demons in their hundreds would swarm within the lower levels and slay their vulnerable prey like lambs to the slaughter.

Katreda turned to the mages, praying that their casting was complete. Instead, she received apologetic looks, eyes filled with surprise and regret. The young woman replied to Katreda, "We cannot cast! The demons seemed to have absorbed all mana within the immediate area! It's as if their hunger surpasses even that of physical sustenance."

Desperate, Katreda saw her end here. This would become a battle of attrition, a futile attempt to wear down and restrain the enemy as the others made their escape. Despite all the odds, and even her untimely fate, it was the most honorable thing to do. Who knew she would end up dying here, defending these people only because of a common crisis? Would her father be proud of her? Would Troi understand . . .

She shook off such thoughts immediately. These were the kinds of thoughts those hellish creatures hoped to taste. She would fight them with purity. She took a trembling breath and let it out slowly. "Get ready!" she shouted, her words sending ardor through the hearts of all. Lucrecia may have led them to their deaths, but the woman may still yet save the others, the injured who had no will to fight.

"Stand aside!" commanded someone strongly from behind. It was Jedo. He emerged just as the first of the demons penetrated the barricade's last holding defense. Katreda was filled with uncertainty, but also a lingering hope. "I'll take it from here." Even as the young man spoke, several demons had scuttled several feet through the first corridor.

"Jedo, we can't afford to lose you, too. Don't you remember what your father said? Leave this to the trained soldiers here!"

"My father cannot choose my fate," he bluntly answered and took his place before them. "Besides, Lucrecia ordered me here." Soldiers and priests looked onward in utter confusion. Even Kolark took his eyes off of his scope to see the smaller human boy step forward. With a rather skillful gesture, he took his runed blade from its decorous scabbard and struck the air before him. But it wasn't a flashy move, nor was it meant to target the oncoming demons waving around cudgels and axes. He aimed his sword at the bomb. With a swift movement, he unleashed a firebolt that raced past the demons as though they had only taken baby steps. The bolt struck the small box of bursters like a hot knife through butter. In an almost fluid motion, the charge was set off, a blast so devastating that not only did the pillar get obliterated, but the trespassing demons just feet ahead were scorched. Nothing in front of the offensive contingent survived. Additionally, the entire ceiling before them came crumbling down, blocking all routes that could lead the infestation of demons towards the only sanctuary. The Watertight soldiers were lost in a stupor as stone and gneiss crashed to the ground around them, missing them all in a great chance of fortune. After the debris began to settle, every knight, priest, mage, and jailor started to laugh, an almost hysterical laugh that came from those who narrowly escape death. Whoops spread about the entire corridor, cheers from all except Jedo and Katreda. Somewhere nearby yet another set of explosions shook the precinct, the sound of redemption. The newly formed blockade would still only hold off the fiends for long. With a knowing that they may yet be saved, more whoops erupted. This time, Katreda cheered with them. Even Jedo let out a smile.

* * *

The zeppelin was only a few yards away. The goblin captain had stayed hovering high enough to evade the onslaught that began when the monsters invaded. He, Chappy, and the cabin boy had kept up long enough to see through their escape. As soon as the walls came down at the northern side of the battered fort, the zeppelin lowered its altitude. Chappy ran to his charged sly cannons straightaway, using them to blast away any stragglers. Within minutes, the survivors of Fort Watertight were squeezed onboard.

"Pull us up!" Katreda called out, even as several lithe, brown-skinned demon monsters clawed onto the zeppelin's hull. With a swift swipe, Katreda managed to cleave the arms of two demons. They plummeted down onto the shrubbery below, the sounds of bones snapping undifferentiated with the crunching of branches. Kolark and several mages fired relentlessly upon any others who tried to board the ship. After a fruitless struggle, the demons were left below with the fort to themselves. There were no more souls to consume.

Jedo was the only one on board watching with fiery eyes as the fort crumbled. He listened as the others talked behind him. Lucrecia was praised for her knowledge of stronghold fortification weaknesses. Katreda spoke of their previous successes and how they were to head off to Serenity Isle, now their only base of operations. Troi and the others celebrated by drinking from a cache of ale the soldiers had hauled with them on their trek out. Even Chappy joined them. It seemed like everything had changed in there. Little did they realize this was merely the beginning of an apocalypse. His father was presumed dead, but he knew something. Something about who he was, his destiny. He looked at his shimmering sword, a pale, sad thing. It mourned Xadek's death, too. Jedo learned something about fate, about one's destiny. If they had no power, they could only let destiny guide them, leaving them powerless to stop what lay ahead. However, with the strength one held, those powerful enough could carve their own path. To shape his own path; that was Jedo needed to do. This Ogre Battle would be prevented at all costs. And he would make sure of it. That power lay within his runed sword.

* * *

-Inside the Assembly Chambers, Foothold Citadel of Theramore Isle . . .

The Assembly halls were left derelict. It was as if Scarlet and her bodyguard were left alone to their own devices, free to wander as guests would. However, after minutes of treading light-footedly, avoiding empty suits of armor that came to life, stepping on trick panels that locked doors and summoned elementals, they began to think it was all just some showy way of scaring them off. Or maybe testing them. Nonetheless, the explosions just outside told of the whereabouts of the militia of Theramore. The question was, where were the assemblymen and their guards? And more importantly, where was Jaina?

"Stay close, Mi'lady," Laya said. "Who knows what other surprises these ruffians may have in store for us."

Despite her warnings, Scarlet investigated the hall with diligence. Everything was neat and organized, no papers or chairs overturned; nothing, not even a sign of attack or panic or struggle. Something was wrong. Scarlet and Laya had made their way up the fort-like citadel, feeling more unease with each passing floor. At last, they reached the assembly room used by the higher bigwigs. That also translated to Jaina's main quarters. They entered the unusually enormous chamber, an arced table taking up nearly a fifth of the entire room. Decorous chairs lined the outer part of the arc, leaving a rather lavish design on the carpet within the arc's center. The design was of an anchor with three stars below it, a design similar to that of the Kul Tiras flag. However, there was an ornate "L" inscribed at the upper left corner, a symbol of the old Lordaeron Alliance. It seemed something Jaina would create.

"Your Highness," the elf spoke, a hint of concern in her voice, "it appears they have evacuated just as we landed."

"We weren't quick enough," sighed Scarlet with a defeated tone. "But we still have to find her. I know she'll listen to our ordeal."

"A possibility, but not likely," Laya stated, shaking her head. "Our forces are trying just to stay alive out there. At this point, they may have to retreat and leave us behind. I highly doubt Miss Proudmoore would be as forgiving to us after being so lenient with a bunch of wrongdoers."

"But it's those warships that intend to attack the city! We can still persuade her. I know it." Laya could hear the desperation in the young princess' voice. She felt sympathy for the girl, still so callow, yet driven for something that wasn't even her fault. To fight for one's past and lineage, it was very honorable. The elf couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy. After all, she had no past. She didn't even remember herself when she was Scarlet's age. Found by the royal family in a swamp, her first vivid memory, Laya was taken care of by the nobility of Palatinus ever since. She had been old enough at that time. She proved her loyalty and dedicated her life to the protection of the princess of the kingdom. Remembering this, she would hold on to her vows and do whatever was necessary to help Scarlet, even if Palatinus had crumbled to the ground.

Before either of them could say anything more, there came a bright flash in the center of the room. Laya instinctively leapt toward the princess and pushed her down out of its way. The pair quickly got their feet and took several steps away from the glimmering sphere before them. Laya pulled out her dagger, a special weapon of her world that was made from a peculiar metal known as baldr. It might have not seemed like much against a magic orb conjured to kill them, but the dagger had its own magical properties.

Then, something unexpected happened. The orb expanded, blinding them for a split second until it unveiled a seemingly hidden world. They floated into the sky, the two unwanted visitors startled as they glanced below their feet. A huge landmass lay at the bottom, filled with forests and buildings and life unlike anyplace they'd ever seen. But they were not plummeting to certain death; it was just some illusion. After that realization, they looked above to see naturalistic rain clouds, the sounds of crackling thunder off in the distance. It even smelled like the eve of a storm. Scarlet turned to Laya, and then walked about. She felt as though she was dancing on clouds.

"Persistent, aren't you?" came a light voice from everywhere at once. The two women looked about but saw nobody in the vast expanse of the strange world.

"Do not be a coward, show yourself." At Laya's baiting, a figure materialized a few feet away from them the same way a specter would. Unlike the princess and elf, the fragile figure hovered in mid-air. She wore beautiful gold-trimmed robes in brilliant colors of blue and purple. Her hood covered her whole face and head, save for several long strands of golden hair. She kept her face down as she floated, letting the strong winds about them whip at her dress and cape. Metallic shoulder guards and an aqua-stained choker glinted as partial sunlight shown on her very being.

"Coward? Defeating the Burning Legion is hardly an act of cowardice. You, on the other hand, both are the true caitiffs. You both attack my island with a diversion and sneak in through the back door to assassinate me. And I'm the coward?"

"Are you actually Jaina Proudmoore?" Scarlet asked in confusion. "I was never told Jaina, the savior of the Lordaeron survivors, was this condescending and cold."

"You dare to mock me?" the sorceress challenged. "In this realm, I reign supreme, may I remind you." As she spoke, the storm intensified. The clouds darkened. The thunder crackled. The ocean beneath them churned and boiled. "Here, water can be turned to fire. Wind can be turned to hard earth. Lightning can become quicksilver knives. I can undo you quicker than you can even think of running away." Laya, however, wouldn't have any of it.

"You stand, _float,_ behind this little world of yours and call yourself someone mighty? I bet you even sent those summoned creatures after us in the caves and halls. How _brave_ of you."

"Talk must be a major repertoire in your small arsenal of skills, elf. But I'm not stupid. You are a Blood Elf. No other realms I know of consists of your kind. And, as such, that makes you an easy target. Your thirst for magic."

"You're wrong," Scarlet lashed out, "you wouldn't know anything about us. Laya came from my world, Gaia. She never once had a thirst for magic of any kind."

"They are right, let them go," came yet another woman's voice from all around them.

"But they assaulted your island . . ."

"Now is not the time, Magna."

Suddenly, the world faded away, all in another blinding light. They were back at the assembly hall. The woman in robes was greeted by yet another woman in the same exact clothing. In fact, they were exactly the same, the other a mere doppelganger. The image of the original scowling magician blinked away, revealing a different human altogether. Her hair was more of a bleach-blonde, almost silverish. Unlike the other woman, whose hair flowed with kempt beauty, hers was long and unruly. Despite that, her face showed of arrogant pompousness. And even beside that point, she did seem to hold some considerable strength; after all, it was she who summoned not only the monsters, but that fabricated world, as well as her false image. She glared at the two intruders with a strange kind of mirth. Her robes seemed much more ancient and traditional, unlike the younger woman next to her. Squared ends on the dress made it appear cut up, almost like a gypsy's. Thick gloves made of fel magics covered her hands. Long, heeled boots extended up the visible parts of her legs. Although some wrinkles began to show how fickle time was on the older woman, she still appeared not much older than her counterpart.

"Jaina, back so soon, and you know I do not go by that name anymore," the imposter chided. "You," she began again, pointing to Laya, "strange how the tides change. Once I worked amongst your kind, striving to be at least an equal to your magic prowess. And look, now I have surpassed your people's very being. You have tarnished your people's hard-earned title!"

"I have no idea what you're babbling about!" the elf retorted.

"Sure you don't," the woman, Magna, mocked. "Just what kind of high elf are you, then? You do know your ancestry, do you not? Are you acting in denial? Well, speak!"

"Aegwynn," Jaina finally interrupted, "that is enough. I apologize. She speaks her mind even more than ever. But she means well for Theramore Isle and its people. That said, let us attend to business."

"Attend to business?! But . . . !"

At Aegwynn's protesting, Laya muttered to herself, her eyes widening, "Magna . . . Aegwynn."

"You know her?" Scarlet asked her.

"No, of course not. I hail only from Gaia. There's no way I could know her."

"Allow me to clarify some things for you," Jaina informed. She lifted the hood off of her head, revealing an elegant, almost tranquil beauty. Her eyes were a mystical blue and her robes just as royal as the imposter's had been. "First of all, I am Jaina Proudmoore, daughter of the late Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. I led the survivors of Lordaeron here on this island. This, here, is Guardian Aegwynn, the _Tirisfalen_."

"I _was_ the Guardian of Tirisfal," Aegwynn replied flatly. "A lot has changed in the past centuries."

"Uh, I'm sure I would understand all that you all were saying if I was originally from Azeroth," Scarlet responded uneasily.

"Ah, forgive me," Jaina reaffirmed. "Let me skip to the part that probably concerns you more. I learned just recently that you are both not from the world of Azeroth. I've also found out that you've been followed here by an empire and a powerful wizard of unknown origin. This wizard conspired all this, I believe. And he is working together with the evil of this world. With . . . Arthas."

"How do you know all this?" Laya asked, curiosity overcoming her hostility. "And who's Arthas?"

"We are mages, elf," Aegwynn announced, pretending to pay no mind to Laya's questions. "We are the strongest Azeroth has to offer. And, as such, we are capable of traversing various realms, if only for brief periods of time. Through the use of arcane magic, mind you. That world I pulled you into? But a fraction of the true realm's overview."

"She's right." Jaina walked casually past the arced table and toward the line of windows. "We have learned so much so quickly, we were unable to act in time. I have glimpsed your world for just a moment, but I managed to compile enough information to safely confirm the conspirator is of your world. Just now, I came back from some of my reconnaissance. My forces engage your enemy even as we speak."

"Lodis is here?" Scarlet hissed.

"Ah, so these are the remnants of Palatinus' royal family," said Aegwynn, "the refugees from that other world. I feel quite foolish now."

"Sorry. I should have told you sooner, Aegwynn. These are the Palatineans. This is Princess Scarlet . . . and her bodyguard, I'm assuming?" Scarlet nodded her thanks and proceeded to negotiate.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance at last, Lady Proudmoore. As you can see from outside, time is not our friend, so I'll get straight to the point. I came to ask for your help. You are doing us a great favor by fighting Lodis, and for that I thank you. But our true purpose for coming here was so that we could ask that you join our coalition. Stormwind, the last true capital of the human race here on Azeroth, is in turmoil. I'm afraid King Anduin Wrynn has passed away during one of the fiercest battles yet, leaving the council to rule over not only humanity, but the Alliance as well. The council is being manipulated by a tyrant! We need you to take action for your fellow human race, to take your seat at the Alliance. If not, I fear this Arthas character alongside the Holy Lodis Empire will sweep through Azeroth and do what Lodis did . . . to Palatinus."

"So King Anduin has died . . . ?" Jaina sounded shocked, but not so moved. Though Anduin _was_ just a puppet for all those years, Stormwind had constantly been bumping heads with her politics, feeling they held the most authority over all humanity since Lordaeron's fall. That, of course, wasn't true. Jaina saved her people from certain doom and was rightfully decided as leader of their newfound home. She contributed to her people by acting immediately when Medivh gave the warning of the coming of the Scourge; no one else heeded his word. Stormwind did little more than accept refugees as the plague consumed all of Lordaeron. They chose not to readily get involved in the troubles that stirred, insisting it was a "Lordaeron problem". And now, they wanted to use their false authority to wage war with the Horde? For that, she felt a sort of justice had been done. Still, they were her last of kin on the war-torn world. The people were as much puppets as was Wrynn.

"Actually, I have come upon a solution to this little dilemma," Aegwynn chimed in.

"Please, speak," Scarlet offered.

"Jaina my dear, remember when I went reporting to some of the Red Dragonflight weeks earlier? Well, it so happened they uncovered a teensy rumor. They spied on the vicious little monsters of the Black Dragonflight. It seems the original ruler of Stormwind, King Varian Wrynn, yet lives, and was kidnaped by none other than Onyxia, daughter of Deathwing. Find her, and we find the king. Find the king, and the Alliance is restored. Restore the Alliance, and you have an army at your beck and call."

* * *

-Plaguelands, at the ruins of Hearthglen . . .

Sylvanas and her warriors stood at the outskirts of Hearthglen, or what was once the fair town. Random, uncoordinated undead from Scourge ranks roamed occasionally, only whetting the appetites of the Forsaken. With savage prejudice did they rip apart the already-dead. It was too bad; what a waste, thought Sylvanas. Then again, who would want to actually be brought back? What came after revenge? Was the illusion of life even worth it? These were questions that came after her strife was through. Now, the matter at hand stood only a few yards away. Hearthglen, but one of the towns obliterated when the Scourge marched through for their first time, was crawling with fully-decayed mongrels, the likes of which weren't even worth reverting onto the Dark Lady's side.

It was still light out when Sylvanas finished resurrecting the undead she had liberated from Kel'Thuzad's forces. A treasure, that new plague was, allowing her to counter Arthas'. It took much determination and focus to extinguish the disease and free the captives. Still, it bought her new valuable allies. Among them was a once-revered human mage whose skills were shunned by the Scourge, instead choosing to use him as a mere puppet ghoul. Such folly, for he held such strength.

"Awaken," she said, almost mournfully. "Awaken, and know that you are now a child of the Forsaken. Who you once were matters no more. What you are now reflects both your past and future. But your future lies in your hands.

"We are Forsaken! And we will slaughter anyone who stands in our way. I am your Dark Lady, Sylvanas Windrunner. I placed a more potent plague through your ravaged body and freed you from the shackles of the Lich King. And now, you have a will, a will that is yours and yours alone! All I ask is that you help in the fight against this foul menace . . . Arthas. Lest you risk being controlled again like a mindless tool."

"I . . . I still live?" questioned the undead man with a raspy voice of death.

"No, you do not live," Sylvanas answered coldly. "Life chose not to condone you. We are the once-dead, the ones forced astray, the denounced creatures with the souls of the living. You died against the armies of Arthas, the Lich King. Raised to do his bidding, I set you free. Tell me, what is your name?"

"My name?" again he questioned. He only stared blankly past the haunting face of the Dark Lady. Only then did he notice he had just one eye, on the left side. Yet, somehow, he saw as though his right eye had still been present. He felt as though the body he was in was foreign, like one would feel when they were mortally ill. It was both uncomfortable and accommodating. His skin crawled with multi-legged creepers. Joints squealed with each movement he made. Dark magic kept his twisted spine performing regularly. Patches of broken flesh revealed dull discolored bone. Something like fear ran through his hunched body, however, it was hard to compare what he _felt_ to anything from his past. His senses were . . . altered somewhat.

"That is alright. Many of us do not fully retain our memory right away. In the meantime, I shall call you Havok, the name of a high elf mage I once knew well in my life past. He would have made an amazing addition to the Forsaken, but he was . . . anyway, you are now Havok."

"Are there others just like me? Those who've just awakened?"

"Of course," she told him, gesturing around the gloomy marsh-like forest. "Every day we salvage more and more free-minded dead to join our ranks."

"Doesn't that make you the lich?" he asked casually.

"In context, perhaps. More like a lich of justice. Under my allegiance, though, I've gained the help of lich lords from another land. With their knowledge, I can best some of Arthas' strongest legions. However, I need some way to keep them in check."

"What is the purpose of leading an army that may backstab you at any point? Let me guess, I'll have to deal with keeping them in line?" Havok questioned.

"Hmph. Most of them will be the clean-up lackeys to send in case things get a little too dicey. But what _you_ are here for is even far more important than any lich lord or flunky's task. You are leading them into Northrend on an expedition to carve us a path."

"A suicide mission? Sounds like I've been raised to die another gruesome death." Sylvanas sighed, crossing her arms. It was becoming apparent that patience wasn't a virtue of hers, if she even had any to begin with.

"Hardly. Havok, you are going to have the most calculating job of all, an important job. At all costs, you will hold down the Scourge forces under Anub'arak. Use our new 'allies' as you see fit. But first, let us rid this outpost of its scum. We were told to hold this area at all costs, though I'm beginning to doubt the Blood Elves' cogency. Oh well, you could use the practice to regain some of your better powers."

Looking around the field of crumpled undead bodies, Havok again asked her, "Can't these be raised to serve you?" Though the constant questioning was putting her on edge, she replied with a sudden dark interest in her voice.

"Regrettably, the dead twice cannot rise again."

Sylvanas left her future protege to his own devices, heading on over to the desolated Hearthglen. No sooner was she approached by someone in the shadows of one of the nearby buildings. The figure was tall and looming, almost expected. Who the uninvited guest was, though, could not be as easily expected.

"Greetings, Lady Sylvanas. What brings you here?" The voice was the biting one of an all too familiar tauren.

"I was told to remain here on standby, Magatha. Who the hell sent you here?" The former high elf's words only brought laughter from the female tauren.

"Who told you . . . Theron?" Magatha's words were almost facetious. "I suppose it was a good thing not to include you into the ranks. But now, I'm afraid, you must know the truth."

"What are you blethering about now?" Sylvanas snapped. "I've no time for games."

"He stands over everyone, manipulating the tables," she replied. "Don't you sense it? He controls the Horde and the Alliance. He watches the war go in his favor. He uses every 'tool' to make ends meet. He even used you."

"So, you're turning coat against Nazgrel and I for some fop? Can't say I'm surprised. However, nobody controls me. Your biggest mistake was confronting me about it."

"Ha," laughed the shaman, "as if your loyalty ever held true to the Horde! At least I plan to better it. You just want to destroy everything in your miserable grief! I threw Thrall out of the equation for a greater future, all the while keeping a keen eye out for those who would serve my new master best. And you, I'm afraid, are no longer any good to us. He needs servants who listen and obey, not one who serves only themself. Your fellow Forsaken, though, are going to do just nicely for when Arthas takes Tirisfal Glades."

"You're aligned with Arthas?!" Sylvanas spat. "You'll never take my new comrades!" Magatha couldn't see the wickedly quick arrow shoot through her. She also vanished shortly after, much to the disgruntlement of the banshee queen. "An illusion. So, you take well after your new puppeteer?"

"At least Arthas has a plan for after the takeover. You are only fighting for personal gain, sadly. It is for the greater good of Azeroth, for the ultimate unity, but you could never see it. That is why Nazgrel and I shall lead a new Horde together, with the Lich King as our ally."

"Nazgrel?" She spoke seemingly to herself as the tauren crone's voice echoed all about her. "Using his hatred for humans, should have seen that coming."

"It's only a matter of time before the Lich King's master plot against you sees fruition. Even as we speak, I have drawn the Sin'dorei's greatest force, the Farstriders, on a wild goose chase, leaving your former homeland open. Eversong shall be ours." Magatha's form materialized above a peak beyond the broken village. A wicked smile crept across her oddly regal, black-furred face. With a swift gesticulation, her arms sent a wave of electricity flying her way. Sylvanas flung an arrow just before diving away from the randomly undulating bolts. Wet bog conducted the waves and sent charges through the banshee in small sets. Gritting her teeth, Sylvanas glanced up to see that Magatha had teleported yet again.

"Give it up," she further instigated, "for even Arthas serves the ineffable one, a higher power beyond your comprehension."

"Never!" Sylvanas raged. "I refuse to ever be a puppet for that monster, or the 'ineffable' one!" With a burning hatred harbored deep within her very being, she sent out a force field of arcane energies all about. The spell caught the tauren off guard, but seemed to have limited effect. It was not much longer when a rough wafture of hot air hit the shaman. She attempted to teleport from the unexpected assault, but found that she could not cast; it was the force field Sylvanas released. A half of a second later, flames burst about the tauren and tossed her aside. Greatly injured, she turned to see an undead man readying yet another spell.

"Havok!" the Dark Lady shouted.

"It's not over yet," Magatha cried, vanishing from the scene. "The stage is already set. The actors took their role! We shall give new purpose to Azeroth! We shall give rise to the Ogre Battle!"

* * *

The area was vaguely familiar. The air was charged with energy, the grim skies a blackened blue. Dark, puffy clouds raced all about those ominous nebulas that radiated power. Down crashed thunder that resounded everywhere all at once. Blazing meteors of flame and magma rained down every so often to scorch the earth, leaving craters. Tornados danced like venomous snakes in the sand. Hills and crags made of rock and dirt stood recalcitrantly against the unnatural cyclone. Tall blades of grass swayed crazily in the torrents. The only light available in the darkness of night was the electric lightning in the sky striking the hills just as obstinately. It was a battle of earth and sky, of elements and stone. Home was in upheaval. There was more warfare, too.

Massive ogres trampled the earth beneath their feet, creating muddy sinkholes. These were no Azeroth natives, though. They were grey-skinned and demonically altered. Hammers and axes in their gargantuan hands were splayed with bone and blood. They were led by grotesque spellcasters, both undead and demonic. Liches, goatmen, winged demons, and vampires marched alongside those giants. Women with writhing snakes for hair slithered on serpentine appendages. In the forefront charged a medley of zombified monstrosities; ghouls, zombies, Nerubians, abominations and Frost Wyrms trudged down and up hills. The scene suddenly expanded, giving a broader view of the land's overlay. Far ahead opposing the forces of death stood an army of different races, all combined coalitions of humans, dwarves, trolls, orcs, gnomes, dragons and other creatures. Even races deemed lesser were amongst them. They, too, raced for the field of battle. It seemed a battle of apocalypse. And to sum up that whole scene, a shadowy king of kings stood in the backdrop alongside an insidious queen. Shrouded in a mist of darkness, they were the epitome of evil, leading down their slivering corruption through the land.

Thrall recognized that place. It was somewhere on Kalimdor, continent of the tauren and night elves. The visage of that land was appalling. Even more so was the slaughter. They fought tenaciously, each side evenly matched. Still, he could not bear to watch much longer. But the spilling of guts and chopping of sinew became ingrained into his memories. He seemed to convulse violently, struggling to clear the scene from his sight, his mind. Nothing. It kept going like a torment he was meant to endure. Then, suddenly, a flying creature of blackness finally broke his sight. The black bird whirled about mid-air, dark feathers decorating the battle scene like a dirge to the dead and the living soon to join them. The avian dancer soon became the form of a man, the Last Guardian, Medivh. Thrall could do no more than watch the soaked, robed figure descend on him. His hood covered most of his face, yet the orcish warchief saw his stern, mournful expression from the last encounters. The man spoke immediately amidst the crackling of lightning.

"You saved your people. You put your differences aside and joined humanity to save the world. Now, you must do the unthinkable. Thrall, save your crumbling world! Unite Azeroth. I understand this is a feat that has taunted you forever. However, if you fail this time, all is lost."

He arced his right hand outward, gesturing toward the war behind him. His eyes blazed with sorrow, rage, and justice. But it wasn't Medivh that Thrall focused on; it was the war. The demons were obliterating the opposition. They tore out arms and legs from the sockets of humans. They disemboweled elves and orcs. The monsters cast spells never before seen unto the ancient dragons, annihilating bones and flesh of centuries past. Dwarves and trolls were stifled by clouds of nether gases that corroded them from the inside out. Tauren horns were yanked out along with their heads. All of Azeroth's greatest entities were quickly consumed by darkness. The Goddess of Affliction just as readily absorbed the chaos and death as the God of the Dead gleaned the souls of the petty. It was a dark pact, set upon by a once-mortal, and Thrall felt it. He felt death at a grand scale. The "Earthmother" Cairne and his people had always worshiped was in terrible agony. Was this the future, or the alternate result lest he acted? As if in answer, Medivh gave one final warning.

"This is the fate of Azeroth, borne into a fracturing world of chaos and genocide. This is the world destined to exist. This is all that will be left. No other army remains to rout the forces of doom. Even the Scourge and Burning Legion cease to exist. It is time to shatter the shackles of fate cuffed to everyones' wrists. Your key for unity lies on the floating island south of Stranglethorn. I leave the rest to you."

Eyes opened instantly. Suddenly, Thrall was staring at the ceiling of his chambers, hot, tensed, and sweaty. He wanted to scream, to squirm and move and prove he was no longer in that nightmarish place he evidently dreamt of. His eyes warily searched the room and found the form of a human woman. She turned to him, whether by coincidence or from hearing him pant. Either way, she was moving her way to him.

"Thrall, you're finally awake," she began, as though he had known her always. "I had started to suspect you were lost to us."

"And you are?" he managed, though he wondered how.

"Menara. I was tasked to assist Vol'jin and Beram Skychaser in your healing. But now that you have made a dramatic recovery, it is time I ask you what I came here to ask."

Before she could finish, the troll and tauren had entered the room, grim looks enlivening to something of pure amazement.

"Warchief!" exclaimed the tauren, Skychaser, frozen in shock.

"Dis be a miracle!" praised Vol'jin, who found his place beside the bedridden orc.

"Is this really the time for celebration? There is a storm brewing and Thrall may very well be the only one who can stave it!" Menara, the warlock of secrecy, half-expected the tribal creatures to protest, even strike her. However, the Warchief merely nodded as he got up off of bed.

"You are ever right, Menara."

"What?" she asked, angry confusion sounding from her voice.

"You are in no condition to fight now!" urged Beram. "You must still be reeling from that mysterious curse."

"It's been cleansed . . . by an old friend."

His reply was just as cryptic as his resolve. He strode over to grab his war hammer and simply stated, "To Stranglethorn, to the isle in the sky."


	16. Of Wargods and Heroes

-Chapter 16-

Bombs flew from cannons in a serenade meant for Theramore Isle. Rifles blasted death songs amidst the slow-setting sun. In mere moments, the ocean began running red with the blood of the warring oppositions.

The lead ship, a gargantuan vessel, loomed over the battlefield of liquid. Its size was comparable to that of a small but wide fort, making it the sole target of the Theramore navy. However, those facing the monster ship soon learned too little too late the consequences of the short-lived assault. The craft's design itself warned of impending doom, emblazoned with dozens of various dragon motifs foreign to those native to Azeroth. The monstrous figurehead of a multi-headed ocean hydra observed the carnage at sea before its other kin. Strange, mystifying red gems were fitted where reptilian eyes should have been. Even odder, the figurehead appeared oblivious to any and all attacks, the rest of the hull apparently the same. One sole man walked down amidship nonchalantly as the attacks ensued; all others worked fervently for their success and survival. Though only a fool would openly admit that the Theramore navy was nothing to worry about, this one steadfast man was not any ordinary commander.

"Sir," came a lackey from one of the gunnery stations, "I've received a report from the raven team we dispatched to shore. They state that Scarlet is no longer amongst the retinue, just as we have feared."

"I cannot say I am much surprised," responded the young commander.

"Wait, there's more. The Palatinean royal entourage has managed to side with the Theramore soldiers. Apparently, this'll means . . ."

"Of course I know what this means!" spat the commander. "The Theramore scum have sided with our renegade princess. What a bother! I'll just have to show them who's stronger. A pity, the time we're wasting here." The lowly soldier bowed and ran off to his station, leaving the commander alone to his thoughts.

"Well, Maltheon, I sure hope you're not attempting the same shame and failure you displayed back at the Redridge Mountains," a voice crept from behind. Maltheon turned quickly to face the old crone he very much despised.

"Well, if it isn't good ol' Zeda," he replied, a half smile forming on his youthful face. He ran his gloved fingers through his slicked-back ashy blond hair. "Always showing up when uninvited, huh? Don't worry, witch, I have everything under control here. The seas belong to me, no matter what world I traverse!"

"Quite confident, are we? I've just come to warn you that Lord Vuelmont is on the move soon. First, he needs to take care of some loose ends, and then he shall initiate the invasion, just as planned."

"And?" Maltheon snapped. "I already know my duties."

Water splashed all about them as random wooden planks flew into the frothy depths just after an explosion. Zeda flinched slightly at the wreckage of the fallen ship, holding on to her robes and cowl. Yet Maltheon stood with arms crossed, his foot tapping impatiently on the marvelous sheen of his own ship's wooden floorboards.

"_And_ you must make sure that the princess is buried, or at the least use your pitiful life to stall them as long as possible. Remember, you do not want to disgrace Lodis."

"You mistake me, vile urchin. I fight for Valeria, my fair kingdom! The only reason I stand here under the banner of Lodis is for the interests of my king and queen, nothing more."

"Then, for your kingdom's sake, you had better win! Five days, that is all Lord Vuelmont gives you, and then his plans shall see fruition. Should you fail again, _you_ will end up the lord's new figurehead."

With that, the crone vanished into a mist of purple haze. Scowling, Maltheon continued his walk to the bow of his mighty vessel, _Drakengarde_, unhindered. The great, looming figurehead stood before him, glaring down at the infidels below. Maltheon did the same. He smiled in fascinated glee as _Drakengarde_ ripped right through a ram ship, the tiny ten-man ship shredding apart pitifully. A more hardier ship sailed just a few notches away from where the monster warship headed. The commander rubbed his chin in wonderment, observing the rudiment and ineffective structure of the craft. It was about roughly half the size of _Drakengarde_, a disappointment in the least. This world must have been slightly underdeveloped, he pondered. Still, it was facing northeast where one of Maltheon's ships was blown to a burning crisp, eventually veering toward him. Cannonades blasted at the giant warship in vain, the bombards exploding onto an invisible barrier he created. That same barrier revealed tiny strings of blue energy every time it was struck. Otherwise, it was completely unseeable. In his boredom, the commander waved a spell with his hand and rerouted one of the cannon-fires toward another warring ship, the blast deadly. He watched curiously as _Drakengarde_ rammed the oncoming battleship. That ill-fated ship was destined to crumble, he thought. Prow and figurehead penetrated through the gunwale of the Theramore craft with unusual ease. After decelerating just a little, Maltheon's sea demon split through the ship, bifurcating it. He looked onward to his left and right, savoring the faces of the panicky soldiers on the bisected cruiser. Some were smart enough to abandon ship, though it still probably meant death for them. Others had the folly of boarding his ship. Lucky for him, his energy field did not block out life-forms, just non-living projectiles, which meant plenty of entertainment for him.

Unsheathing his rapier, Maltheon placed his footing and awaited the advance of three soldiers. Two charged, one right after the other, bearing broadswords and shields. He parried the first attack with ease, sending the knight reeling to the far left. If he didn't have to oppose three worthless grunts at the same time, that one would have been finished. But the next attack came too abrupt. The second warrior swung overhead, a swift strike that not any ordinary combatant could deflect. However, Maltheon was far too quick. He simply sidestepped the attack, moving away from both soldiers, and with a powerful thrust, sent his blade beneath the arm of his foe in a counterattack. It sunk deftly through ribs and muscles and heart, an instant kill. At that same moment, the third boarder who had bided his time for a sneak attack dashed from behind. From his peripheral sight, Maltheon anticipated his movements, as well as that of his hidden blade. He swung around his body toward his left, bringing his rapier out of the dead man. Without warning, he jammed the back part of his hilt directly at the charger's face, crushing his nose and forehead in. Dead or not, he crumpled to the floor. Before the single remaining soldier could make a move, several others had boarded his ship from behind him. He heard at least five different thumps all around. He assumed his other forces were busy defending the stern, so he figured he could take care of them all.

"Think you've got me, eh?"

He allowed the soldiers to rush him, all of them eager to shed his blood for the deaths of their compatriots. They basically walked into their own deaths. Maltheon sent waves of pernicious frost from his body, powerful, mana-costly magic that struck the foolish soldiers all at once. The magic created ice crystals within their bodies, deep within each blood vessel and muscle fiber, slicing through with the same tenacity as glass. Without much sound, each body fell to the floor. All he heard was the faint shattering of ice glass.

After that refreshingly easy battle, Maltheon returned to the bridge, hoping to find the island completely under siege. Instead, he saw a whole other battalion awaiting his approach, the admiral's ship at the far rear. More ships edged toward the rest of the perimeter of the isle, many various ships of different models he'd never seen. This was the main contingent, he was sure. What he wanted to know was what they had in mind. Did they merely intend to put him to route with an impressive armada? Maltheon had no idea what to expect, but he knew just what to do to them.

"Initiate the Drakonite Cannons!" he shouted with a determined grin on his comely face. The cannons were his greatest artifacts, remnants of the vast knowledge that belonged solely to the ancient Drakonite race of Gaia. At the proximity he was at, his secret weapons would annihilate not just the naval army, but the entire port itself. He had wanted to avoid this for the sole reason of attracting too much attention from the inhabitants of Azeroth, but enough was enough. It was about time to set an example, to bring the mongrels of this world to their knees. Vuelmont wanted this job done, and that was what he was going to get. If he wanted the isle as a staging post, he'd have to accept it in shambles.

"Sir, second permission to begin bombardment?" warned the cannoneer, his eyes fearful.

"Just do it, damn it! Who told you to question my authority?"

"Lionel, sir," replied the somber soldier hesitantly. "He said you were bound to hit the 'easy button'." Maltheon's eyes narrowed at the man's words.

"Do you see that bastard commanding this battle? No! He's in northern Kalimdor! Now, use the cannons before I toss you overboard!"

The cannoneer readied the arcane cannon engines, the ancient things charging. They rose onto the deck, pointing skyward ominously. With a malice almost as equal as the crone's, the commander snickered at his target. In all his experiences, nothing ever survived the Drakonite Cannons.

* * *

Pala joined the fray after "convincing" the stubborn captain of the danger that drifted just yards away. In a stunningly uncharacteristic way, the captain commanded his men to strike at the foe at sea, even asking for Vincent and his own soldiers to fight the big fight. What his navy did not know was that the wily shaman priestess used a mind control spell on the hard-headed man.

"To sea, my brave men!" he shouted. "We must take out these scallywags before they reach our precious Theramore! These men at our harbor are not enemies, but friends who risked their necks to warn us of a new foe, Lodis! Strike them with all your might!"

"Aye!" responded his marines with equal enthusiasm. "Aye, aye, Admiral Thalaz!"

The tauren smiled at the convenience of this situation. Being admiral, she could assume temporary control over the entire Theramore navy and avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Pala took advantage of the situation and began to use her spirit magic spells to aid her new allies. Meanwhile, Vincent served somewhat as a lieutenant of the navy, adhering to Pala's plan as she explained it telepathically.

"So, you're a hundred percent about this, right?" Vincent insisted.

"Trust in me, and yes, I am a hundred percent."

"Fine, I guess this is my cue."

"Wait," Pala urged, ending her telepathic message with a spell. An unusually warm breeze wafted across Vincent's face, embracing him and empowering him. It was some kind of wind magic, however, he was unaware of how it worked exactly. The men under him were likewise enchanted.

"Alright, people, we have ships to board and Lodisian bastards to slay," he announced, "now, let's move!"

Aboard the goblin transport, Vincent pointed toward the crowded horizon and yelled at the goblin captain to sail. He answered with a nervous smile, "Are you crazy?! There're warships out there!" After some aggressive persuasion, the tiny green creature complied. The warships led by Admiral Thalaz met the opposition, beginning the great aquatic war. The shots were first fired from the forces of the Holy Lodis Empire, however, the first hits came from the diligent Theramore cannoneers. The admiral kept to the rear, preparing a stratagem that could only be concocted by a cautious tactician. Vincent's small vessel was able to sail by without much detection; it seemed Lodis was more preoccupied with their own strategies of getting to the island. Nevertheless, he watched with anxious frustration as, one-by-one, ally ships fell. Some were simply overrun, the otherworldly crafts slightly more impervious to physical damage. The empire was taking chances, using its superior builds to its fullest advantage. Others were defeated by cannon fire, the likes of which were not that different from theirs. So, all in all, they were evenly matched. Lodis had the advantage of strength and bulk, while Theramore had the advantage of overwhelming numbers, not to mention home team perquisites.

"Get us closer to that ship!" Vincent roared as soon as he saw a familiar threat. Flashes of magic came from a mammoth ship at the center of the battlefield. Besides the blasts that sent splashes and wooden remains flying everywhere, there were magic spells being cast aboard that one ship. It was then that he recognized the infamous vessel: _Drakengarde_. It seemed Maltheon was eager to end this battle all too soon. Just like him to act so confident.

Shadows were suddenly darting over him and his crew, turning the attention from Maltheon and _Drakengarde_ to the skies.

"Ravens," muttered Vincent uncertainly. "Ravens! Take them out!"

The ravens swooped down for the kill, understanding Vincent's plight. Appearing as mere humans with large, feathered wings of forest green plumage, these heavily armored warriors of the skies were vicious fighters. Known for their bloodlust, they descended with baldr axes in hand, using the might of Harnella, the Wind Goddess, at their whim. Before they were in range to strike, the entire platoon of ravens unleashed their lightning arrows. The blazing swift barrage required no bows or weapons, for it was an innate ability of theirs as winged wind beings. The bolts crashed down violently, damaging the deck of the goblin-craft and claiming four lives. It was the end of their preemptive strike; they dove down and swung their axes with two hands, trying their best to down their numbers without taking any damage. They seemed dark green doves in dark green armor, nothing but wings and golden blond hair visible through it. The assault took six more of Vincent's men. They only managed to scathe one raven's armor. To make matters worse, the raven team prepared the same bombardment again. It was then that Pala's spell began to kick in. Small tornados formed around the enchanted men, a spell that did not hinder the combatants. However, as the ravens surged down to shoot their arrows, the bolts never struck the overmatched foes below. Instead, the tornado flung it away in the direction it was fletched. In less than a second, eight ravens were taken out from the skies, leaving only rumpled plumage dancing in mid-air. Startled, the raven's formation was disbanded, creating only an organized group of marauders. Just merely a dozen left, they came in to swing their weapons in defiance of their strength. The tables were turned, though. Axes were hurled from their grasp as tornado magic did its job. Even armor was lifted effortlessly in the fierce winds surrounding them. Swords and partisans found their mark with ease, the feathered platoon falling within minutes.

"They won't catch us off guard again," Vincent sighed. They had just managed to stray close enough to Maltheon's behemoth of a vessel when he noticed several golden cannons on the deck of his ship. The design and the markings suggested something ancient and destructive. "Since when did Lodis have Drakonite artifacts?"

Panic surging within him, he understood the power Maltheon planned to unleash on the isle. He tried calling to Pala mentally, but nothing happened. The ship suddenly shook, taking a direct hit.

"We've been struck!" cried the goblins on board from the top of their lungs. "We're goners!"

Four ships were converging from behind _Drakengarde_, at least two of them targeting Vincent's lone ship. It wouldn't be long before another direct hit would come, and that would also probably be the end of them.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

From the island, several thunderous sounds erupted. The sound soon morphed into the whistling of air being torn. With a liquid explosion, two of Maltheon's ships were demolished, wood chips and fire and bodies flying everywhere into the deep blue sea. The cannon towers on Theramore had finally begun blasting. And that was just one of many bombing. The other two missed their targets, but caused the sea to become unsteady. Many enemy crafts lost control and smashed into each other, sending men and ship parts crashing beneath other ships. It was a moment of temporary disorientation for Lodis' armada. That was well enough. Theramore's cannons continued the barrage fire, perhaps their best means of defense.

"Time to board!" Vincent shouted amidst the destruction. The crew tossed up their grappling hooks and began to climb the vast ship's gangway. They watched in awe as their allies' cannon fire bounced uselessly off of the monster ship. They still persevered, though. Vincent was able to hear screams and metal-on-metal from above on deck. He was only several feet away when a bloody body was tossed overboard, one of the Theramore sailors presumably. He lifted himself up on the deck of the mighty Valerian ship and was stunned when he saw the six giant gold Drakonite weaponry preparing to wreck havoc. He didn't know too much about the Drakonites, but knew enough to realize what they were capable of. With his loyal Palatinean soldiers by his side, he searched the ship with eager eyes. Suddenly, the bow and stern surged with warriors. Though, not just any warriors, they were Templars, Lodis' greatest knights. In the shadows of the Templars, near the enormous figurehead at the bow, stood none other than Maltheon. Both Vincent and Maltheon's eyes met, a moment of acknowledgment to their rivalry.

"Go, Sir Vincent," said one of his second-in-command. "We'll mop the floor with these Templars! You go take care of Maltheon."

With a firm, quick nod, Vincent unsheathed his Flamberge yet again. He rushed forward, cutting his way through to the grinning commander of this fleet. If he could slay the commander and sink his ship, the battle would be over. By the time he reached the Templars, they were unleashing spells from their blades. Twirling chains of lightning came racing past. He outmaneuvered the bolts and sent the Flamberge cutting through at waist's length. Metal cut through decorous armor and ripped through flesh beneath. However, they were not enough to be killing blows. Even still, its impact sent them flying back and even knocked some of the knights off the ship. Bringing the greatsword up overhead, he charged the sword's energies and forced shockwaves rumbling before him. The sheer pressure caused metal to dent. Donning large helms with crosses for openings, the daunting Templars soon found themselves being killed by their own armor. Gouged and depressed metal sliced and punched through innards and bones. In one well-placed strike, six Templars were killed, many more badly injured.

Vincent's men handled the rest of the knights. All that was left was the one leading this miserable crusade. The two men paused for one instant, fire blazing in their eyes.

"I've waited for this for too long, Maltheon," Vincent said with a bitter smile.

"And I the same, maggot," he replied with a more intrigued grin. "Still anguished by the loss of your kingdom?"

"It isn't yours anyway," he spat swinging his blade over his right ear. The swing, of course, missed its mark; it had been intended to force Maltheon to move from his place above the stairs. Not typical to his character, he complied by dodging. He also chose not to counterattack.

"It's still lost," he retorted, though his tone was more teasing than anything.

"Valeria is just a puppet country, just as Palatinus was before it finally fought back the empire! Just face it, you fight solely for Lodis."

"Maybe so, but we Valerians have more up our sleeves, more to fight for when the time comes. Palatinus cannot even stand on its own two feet! _You_ just face it, your land has crumbled. Redemption for Valeria is at hand."

With an angry grunt, Vincent swung his Flamberge wildly, making three full criss-crossing strikes. Maltheon had no choice but to parry the final strike or risk getting cleaved open. Their weapons stood in a deadlock, the blades grinding on one another. Their faces neared each others', each warrior hoping the other would fall back.

"I don't know why you even insist," taunted the Valerian commander, "you fight for nothing!"

"I fight for a second chance!"

Vincent lifted the man off of his sword, sending his sword straight for the man's heart. The lithe commander kicked the side of the sword up just before it struck and slashed at the savage warrior just in time. His arm was sliced open, blood painting the deck around them. With lightning speed, he ducked low and swung again, his sword penetrating Vincent's boots and down further.

Maltheon stood up to hear the agonizing shouts of the man, music to his ears. A well-placed kick sent him tumbling down the stairs, adding insult to injury. Laying face-up, Vincent remained still, consciousness fading fast. It was quite a pitiful sight to the Valerian.

"You fight just to die," he stated. "You fight just because you can, because it's all you have left. An army ant without its colony to defend. It happens to the best warriors, once they lose everything. And now, it takes a greater, nobler warrior to end that man's misery."

"You're wrong," hissed Vincent through his agony as he tried to lift himself up. "I fight for Princess Scarlet. As long as she lives, I have a purpose, even if it is to die here!"

Maltheon walked casually up to the fallen man and placed his hand beneath his chin harshly. He squeezed hard and stared hauntingly into his eyes. "Word has it you were born in northern Valeria, becoming an eventual turncoat to fight against us. I'll tell you what, traitor. I can kill you now, I can kill later, or I can kill you gradually, like a poison. Or I can spare you the eternal misery you rightfully deserve if you admit you have nothing and tell me where Scarlet is! Your fate is held in your hands for once, Vincent."

"I may have been born Valerian, but Palatinus is my homeland! They alone had the potential to fight off Lodis' puppet strings, not Valeria. As long as the idea still holds true, it's still possible to bring it back."

"Pitiful fool! Now watch as we do to Theramore as we did to the Palatinean border."

The Drakonite Cannons had stood idly by, awaiting its command to obliterate. The enigmatic machinery began to charge, a wiry, electric noise that shook _Drakengarde_ at its core. Maltheon forced Vincent's face toward the island and stared with total reverence at the might of the ancient Drakonite race. Once the charge was complete, the commander raised his arm in consent. The cannons fired, and runes began to appear all around the muzzle of the weapons. After a few more seconds, the golden machines fired, the sounds strangely mute for awesome creations of destruction. Vincent closed his eyes, the killing pain from his wounds a mere thing of the past compared to this instant.

"This is it, I am once again victorious, just as I was on Gaia!" Maltheon sang.

The explosions and destruction never came. In fact, they seemed to merely dissipate. Maltheon's eyes widened. He tossed Vincent aside and stalked over to the bow. Theramore was still there, the fleet was still there, everyone and everything was still there! He looked about wildly for any quick explanation and then saw it. At the top of the island's central citadel floated an angel, some kind of spectral being that seemed to guard the island. Had the gods chosen to protect this backwater isle? Even as many thoughts raced in his head, a human woman hovered over the sea, a venomous look in her eyes. Like a goddess herself, she rained down stalactites of ice that pierced through the hulls of the opposing ships. At her whims did she unleash instant combustion on unsuspecting barges. Swift bolts of chaotic lightning set masts ablaze. The newest threat obvious, Maltheon's navy had changed strategies, attacking the silver-haired mage. Blinking away helped to dodge the petty attacks on her, and so did she continue to reign terror on them.

"By Filarh, it's Grueza, goddess of water and ice!" shouted a hysterical Templar.

"No, it's the fire goddess, Zoshonel! She set those ships on fire with just her thoughts!" called out another Templar. Such ideas were considered heresy in Lodisian religion. However, they could only watch in horror as the apparent goddess commenced the onslaught.

By that time, Maltheon had had enough. She was no goddess, he was sure of it. A couple of arcane words and he cast a silencing spell on the wench. It had minimal effects, but it did stop her from attacking his fleet. Her magic stunted, she vanished shortly after, leaving him to his next plans. He turned and found Vincent gone, leaving nothing but dead Templars in his wake.

"Damn!" he cursed, as he turned back to the shore. He was nearly there. The Theramore fleet had already begun its pincer attack, just as they had planned. But it was still far from over. He made for the bridge, hoping his captain and navigators were still alive. They stood, eyes wide as he slammed open the doors. "Evasive action! I want us onto shore immediately!"

"But, sir, there are ships barring our way."

"I don't give a damn! Crush them beneath our hull, friend or foe! We must get to shore immediately. Notify Lt. Jermane that he is now in charge of the fleet in my absence."

"S-sir, you can't mean . . ."

"I will find the princess at any costs, for my Valeria!"

Vincent heard his words well, hanging still on his hook. It seemed Maltheon was intent on stopping them even during certain defeat. He had very little able ships left under his control, and Theramore was doing surprisingly well under the guidance of the mind-controlled Admiral. Not to mention that mage, who could very well have been Jaina, did quite a number on them. It was time to carefully follow Maltheon in his tracks.

* * *

Scarlet hurried outside of Foothold Citadel to find the enemy up on the shore, locked in battle with the Theramore soldiers. Paladins marched against the Templars of Lodis and fought them well enough to ward them from residential areas. However, how long they could keep it up against ship after ship full of Templars was questionable. She unsheathed her sword and went to advance the enemy, but a strong, firm hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Wait!" Laya urged. "We were told to wait here, remember? Aegwynn volunteered to assist in the fight. Our concern is to get out."

"That's not the way I work, Laya. I fight for those who help us unquestioningly. Jaina defended us from Lodis, and I plan to return the favor."

"You seem to forget your importance, Princess. These Lodisians are here for you! Without you, there will be no chance to reclaim Palatinus. Is that what you want?"

"Don't worry about us," said Jaina as she teleported down. "We have our towers, our brave men, and Aegwynn to give them grief."

As if in answer, the former Guardian herself appeared. She seemed merely annoyed. Shaking her head she said, "I am sorry to say I am unable to cast much spells. The man in the giant ship has managed some magic technique to mute the spells of carnage. Furthermore, I fear they've begun a new tactic. Through hatches on the left and right sides of their ships, they have released dromonds loaded with warriors. They intend to abandon their battered ships and hit for land."

"Don't worry," Jaina stated, pointing toward the horizon. "An old friend has contacted me a little while ago, said he'd be around the area. It seems we have help." And sure enough, the horizon was filled with more ships and transport vessels, coming from the same direction as Lodis' army. The tailgating ships, when added to the Theramore fleet, created just the perfect assault to end this battle.

"How do you know they aren't more enemy ships?" Aegwynn asked quizzically.

"Simple," Scarlet laughed. "That's our zeppellin above!"

They converged soon enough, the conflict spilling over the harbor. Goblins in their tech flyers began bombarding the tiny dromond ships before they reached land. Meanwhile, the ships immediately began their own assault, shooting cannons and spears and arrows. They sank more ships faster than anyone else had in battle. Not just goblins and humans, but orcs and trolls, too. They had followed their leader here to help out an old friend. As soon as the ocean raiders arrived, so did the zeppellin. While the navy owned the sea, it was the zeppellin that owned the skies. Chappy's cannons fired relentlessly to lessen the amount of barges and ships landing at the harbor. Gunners on board shot down any remaining raven squads that threatened the fleet of saviors. At the gunwhales, Mages led by Menara fired upon arriving ships, sinking them with flaming felmagic. At the bow stood Jedo, Katreda, Thrall, and Vol'jin. The four caught sight of the princess and Jaina soon after, the zeppelin floating toward them amidst the firing and warring.

"This is your cue, ladies," Aegwynn insisted. "Leave the cleanup to me! It is time for my revenge."

"I'm counting on you, Magna," Jaina joked affectionately.

"I'll catch up eventually. Now go! Azeroth needs you!"

* * *

The shores and port were crowded with cockroaches. Theramore knights, paladins, and even skulking acrobats fought with the best their skills had to offer. Maltheon still proved no match to them all. He had just finished cutting a female rogue operative from shoulder to waist, the beautifully sculpted figure falling helplessly to the ground. It was a shame. However, the only thing floating in his mind was his kingdom. That and proving Vincent wrong, that Valeria would not succumb to Lodis' interests. Like any captured land, it would fight desperately, even if it meant abiding the empire's sick orders to do so. Maltheon jilted an unaware paladin, his eyes wide with shock, resent, and regret before falling limp. That look would not haunt him. He pulled out his rapier, the blade weeping blood. He continued to dance the waltz of death, carrying remorse and sympathy for his beloved Valeria with each cut and each kill.

_Maltheon,_ called out an all-too-familiar voice through the use of magic, _it's Jermane. Your prey is getting away._

"Is that so?" he replied magically, even as he shot a blast of ice boulders onto a mob. "Give the location. I will not leave until she is within my grasp."

_Look up_, he simply replied. And Maltheon did, bearing sight of that enormous blimp-like contraption that he would never have imagined to witness. So much for underdeveloped. _Don't think twice about it, Commander. Go for her now. We may have lost the battle, but I'll make sure to give them a nasty last stand before hightailing_ _it out of here. She's our ticket to victory. We'll catch up later._

The man was right. Gathering his energies, Maltheon made a hasty retreat. It wasn't his style to leave a battle so suddenly, but it couldn't be helped. Scarlet was his only form of victory. She was his Valeria on this blasted world. To lose her meant to lose his land on Gaia. With a newfound strength, he only pushed his way around, ignoring the enemy before him. He felt cold, sharp steel rip at his calf even as he stumbled away undeterred. Hot liquid ran down to his ankles, but he continued forward. He ducked under the two flying blades of a Templar and a paladin, rushing for the docks where _Drakengarde_ waited patiently. The ship's plank was lowered for his entrance. It was time to give chase.

That flying ship was far off to the sea already. To a normal nobody, it would have been hopeless to pursue the quarry. However, Maltheon was nothing as petty. On board, directly at the chine of the deck, he raised his arms. Winds bounded all about his wondrous ship and several nearby friendly vessels. Blue energies of magic and mana engulfed the group of warships and maintained them in a sort of bubble. Within seconds, the chosen few disappeared out of thin air. The wargods of the sea mass teleported to face the wargods of the air.

The reunion was a relieving thing. Seeing those familiar faces again made Scarlet feel like she had, indeed, accomplished something on her very own. Though the blue-haired girl had her concerns for the whereabouts of her companions, Vincent and Pala, Jaina knew that they were safe as long as they remained at Theramore, for those outworlders had surely lost the battle. Jaina felt reminiscent as she watched the young girl get reacquainted with her allies. The princess was as much courageous as she was during the Third War. Having to leave her homeland and visit a strange new world to survive. Fighting for her people, it was Jaina's life all over again when things took a turn for the worse. But she prevailed in the end. That was a hope Jaina held onto for future times of strife. Today, she thought, begins those times.

"Hello again, Miss Proudmoore."

Jaina turned to see her one-time comrade in the fight against the Burning Legion. Thrall, the leader of the Orcish Horde, liberator of his brethren for the greater good of Azeroth. He was someone she had grown to admire, for he did what he believed in his heart. It was more than she could ever say about the majority of humans she had to deal with. He was a mystic man, a channeler of spirits and elemental avatars. No other orc cared for the future of the world so much as he. And now, here he stood, like a reminder of a bad dream, almost like some ghost.

"Thrall, it's great to finally see you again," she began. He appeared just as he had during the Battle at Mt. Hyjal. He had long, jet-black hair falling down his broad, muscular back. His face seemed nobler than most orcs, though maybe that was an illusion her mind played on her based on his character. Stern were his eyes, yet at the same time gentle. He wore two braids this time, one on each side of his face. In his plate mail, he looked quite handsome, if not honorable. He gave her a soft nod and smiled, his sharper teeth splaying about his green-skin lips. "How did you know to find us? When I received your message, your arrival was all I wanted to see. But I had to wonder, why?"

"Let's just say I had a vision," he said. "I was told to go to a 'floating island', and so I did. After recovering from a terrible curse, it was the first thing on my mind; after all, remember what happened those years ago on Lordaeron? The destruction there stands testament to the folly of those who did not heed the call of the ancestors. At any rate, from there we arrived and met up with a clan of humans, goblins, and a single Tauren. To make a long story short, they told me their own story of their endeavors and the threats that loom over the horizon. I was certain what it was I had to do. So, I decided to lead my men alongside them to Theramore Isle, where there was said to be a great battle. All I thought of was if you and your people were safe." There was a momentary silence after he spoke, the sorceress speaking out next.

"I'm glad you found your place in this mess. I feared the worst for your people when the wars had started, Thrall. But I always tried to assuage the Alliance council. Peace is all I ever wanted, and now look."

"We share a common goal. That's what makes us so alike, Jaina." Thrall walked closer to the human woman he had grown to like out of her sheer will and courage. "I still feel horrible about the last battle here at your new home."

"Don't feel that way anymore," Jaina advised. "My father and his Kul Tiras armada did what they did because they were inflexible and close-minded. It was inevitable. If I hadn't wanted him to die, I would have denied you access to attack my island."

"Jaina," he said with much remorse. "I know your pain. Even in that, we are the same."

Whatever else Thrall would have said was soon interrupted by a cry from a young man at the stern. "Dammit, we're being tailed!"

"What?" exclaimed a young blond woman in plate armor.

"Quick, evasive maneuvers, now," said a calm, darker woman holding onto a large tome. "It's Maltheon and the _Drakengarde_. If we don't act fast, we'll be shot out of the skies."

Just as she finished speaking, the zeppelin shuddered. The sound of dead wood imploding came from the starboard, a direct shot. Suddenly, five goblins came screaming up the companionway of the lower deck, scattering into hiding spots like rats. Shortly after, a dark-haired boy in light armor came striding up behind the mess of goblins, his face determined.

"Jedo, are the cannons still in good shape?" the armored girl questioned.

"Several are down, but Chappy has at least two roarin' to go."

"We need to fight back!" she shouted, relaying to the warriors onboard what the tactician said.

"You heard her," Thrall said good-naturedly, "let's get to it."

The mighty ships were just close enough to deal some significant damage to the rather dainty flying vessel. One well-placed shot, and they could plummet to the sea, or worse, crash within the Maelstrom. Jaina acted as their defense and staller, trying her best to deflect the projectiles shot at them. With careful targeting, she could even send it shooting back at their assailants.

Thrall sent his ghost wolf companions aboard enemy vessels, wrecking havoc and distracting them from the assault. He watched in admiration as his plan worked to perfection. However, that wouldn't be enough. Thrall used his workings with the elements to summon forth thunder clouds. They violently lashed out lightning and rocked the waves below, making it all too difficult for every following ship except for _Drakengarde._

"Bring us up," called out the tactician. "He'll use the Drakonite cannons soon enough."

And so did they rise, escaping certain doom. What they didn't anticipate was that Maltheon had prepared perhaps one of the strongest spells in his repertoire. _Drakengarde_ no longer sailed the seas, but the skies! Such a stunt must have required much talent in the fields of magic, but would not last too long. He was intending to take them out in just short volleys.

"The cannons!" shouted several soldiers at the stern of the ship. "We're finished!"

"No, we're not!" retorted Jedo, the boy with the strange, long blade. He dashed for the rear bulwark and brought his sword

down toward their pursuers. The blade sang a mournful song, and before everyone's eyes, a fiery orange glow illuminated the skies. Somehow dodging the shield mechanism, the glow penetrated through. One of _Drakengarde_'s masts exploded, tumbling down below and bringing down several others with it. So did flames fall, casting chaos onto the ship's deck. Maltheon still held his ground, the most he could do to keep the ship aloft being his channeling.

"Take out Maltheon," Scarlet suggested, her voice wavering in the crossfire. "With him at least injured, he won't be able to keep the ship in air!"

Meanwhile, Lucrecia, the tactician, as she was referred to, made her way to the helm. It seemed she had a plan brewing, and it involved where they were headed. Jaina took a few seconds to catch her breath. They were safely away from the ships far below, but the new threat loomed only nearby. Runes shone from the deck of that ship, the sight of those fiendish Drakonite engines starting up. Jaina charged her arcane missiles and sent them flurrying toward the chanting swordsman. The sheer strength of those missiles would be enough to stop a charging kodo. However, she was stunned to see that each missile was deflected off its surface. Somehow, he kept a permanent enchantment on the ship itself. Not even Jedo's blade was capable of bypassing it any longer, Maltheon's intent stronger than their will.

"It's no good," she shouted. "He can't be targeted."

"Katreda," said a bowsman. "Is there any way you can cleanse that arcane shield spell?"

"No," replied the armored paladin, her eyes showing the rue she held. "Not one of a grand scale as that. I've never seen such magic."

"Well, try anyway!" yelled the man fletching arrows.

Her spell actually fell through the blue energy that guarded the ship. As she cast, a small gap opened, but shut within a half a second after. It was no good. All the while, the magical relics had finished their charging. They fired, as relentless as its owner. The blast struck home, despite the captain's attempt at evasion. The whole stern disintegrated, cargo and bags falling out in the muted explosion. Even goblins flew out. The green creatures' cries were even louder than the strike. Several men were lost in that firing, too, but luckily the other five shots had missed. The zeppelin still flew. If the next shots found their marks, it would be the end for them all.

Katreda directed her men the best that she could, still adamant that the Lodis slave could be stopped. She gave the orders despite all odds. "Gunther, gather your bowsmen! Kolark, get your rifle and give it all you got! I'll try and open the gap to that damned shield! Jaina, you and the other spell casters do the same. We'll need some support, Thrall, so get to it! Jedo, I don't have to tell you anything." The way she commanded her people made it seem like they almost had a chance. However, the next cannons were already getting charged for the next bombardment.

"Now!" came a shout not as loud, but so sharp it caught the attention of all the crew members. It was Lucrecia, standing near the bridge where the captain maintained the helm. "Everyone, brace yourselves."

At that warning, the ship suddenly plummeted. All cannon fire missed at the unexpected move the zeppelin had made. Falling nose down, the zeppelin fell through the clouds and away from certain destruction. Everyone clawed at whatever they could cling on to. Moments later, the ship pulled up and straightened, barely missing the surface of the water. An ocean mist sprayed at them as the bottom of the zeppelin skimmed the very sea below them. Yet, somehow they made it. The ship flew just above the flowing blue waters when they saw another figure break through the fluffy white above: _Drakengarde._

"What if we strike that thing from beneath?" asked Troi, the heavy-armored young boy.

"Good idea," Gunther answered. "Aim for the hull! Fire! Fire!"

Indeed they did. The bombardment of magic and arrows and bullets didn't do much, but the damage was done. A surge of hopeful excitement inched within the hearts of the riders of the zeppelin when the mighty Valerian ship shook at the impacts, but the truth was it was just a drop in the bucket. It advanced with the same voraciousness as it always had. Just as a dragon, it wouldn't let go of its prey. Hope seemed to dwindle.

"Any moment," Lucrecia added impatiently.

The flying ship swerved from its lack of stern, but it still flew like a determined bird being chased by a dragon. However, nothing could last against the breath of a dragon; not for long. Those destructive weapons would blast again, and there would be no evasive tricks this time. The choices remained. Either rise once more and risk getting shot down, or merely hit the watery depths below. Either choice was suicide.

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. Behind the zeppelin, Maltheon and his ship were taken out of the air by a wide pillar of water. A quick look back revealed the omnipotent ship with its hydra-figurehead being struck by monstrous creatures. They were humongous giants with spears and mauls and hammers. They pummeled the ship with a choler and outrage unseen by any other being on Azeroth.

"What the hell are those?" asked Gunther in awe, even as the others on board watched with relief and wonderment.

"Sea giants," muttered Thrall. "By the spirits, this is quite a sight."

"Lucrecia . . ."

It was Katreda who was lost in thought, yet she questioned her with a knowing that the strange tactician actually planned this to happen.

"Yes, I knew they would strike," she responded, her expression nonchalant, yet relieved all the same.

"How did you know they wouldn't take us down with them?" Jaina asked with more curiosity than fear.

"Those creations were made specifically to contain such violent, awesome powers as those Drakonite cannons, or so lore says. I've read up on them, and several explorers agreed that they were guardians of this world's oceans. Wherever there was destruction near the mid-seas, they appeared. All it took was finding the position they were last found to reside, getting there, and making sure Maltheon fired at us with the weapons. Tricky, but it was a desperate move for a desperate situation." The blank stares she got were typical reactions for the rather young tactician. She shook her head, trying to seem baffled. "Hey, I needed something to study while in prison."

"That's just great," Gunther commented, "you just toyed with our lives, woman! We could have been the ones obliterated by some mangy giants! But really, thanks . . . all the same."

The others wore the same looks, of people who were moments away from certain death. They didn't know what became of _Drakengarde_. After all, with that energy field on their ship, it may have very well escaped. Yet, one thing was for certain; they won. Now, they needed to get to Serenity Isle and prepare for their next move. They had an alliance to repair.


	17. Fated by Blood

-Chapter 17-

-At the ruins of Hearthglen . . .

Solanna marched her men to the ravages of Hearthglen sorrowfully. Somehow, she'd been convinced that the next battle would be on the frozen fronts of Northrend against the Lich King himself. However, once again would she fight the Scourge on the defensive, fighting someone else's fight. Even now, the Forsaken were locked in combat with a good portion of the Scourge invaders just outside the outskirts of the shadowy town. Once a bastion for the deluded Scarlet Crusade, the place was run down after countless skirmishes. Who knew where the fanatical crusade vanished off to after their deplorable defeat. Sad, to exude those beguiled humans, for they too fought for the doom of the Scourge. But it was those damned Forsaken that prevented such an alliance; the Scarlet Crusade, although a bunch of former Lordaeron survivors, was a neutral faction bent on ridding the world of the undead as a whole. So what, then, did the Horde bring for the Sin'dorei other than another stall . . . ? Death? Obligation? Strife?

The robust blood elf ended such thinking, for idle daydreaming would ultimately cause Solanna's demise out in the battlefield. She had men to lead and mindless Scourge to dispatch. Only, there were no deadly walking corpses or giant abominations strewn about. No bodies, no armies, hell, no real enemies other than the measly ghouls that charged occasionally at their counterparts from the hillside just up ahead. Solanna blinked several times, unable to grasp the reality of the situation. This was what the farstriders were called in for? Her men, too, grew anxious, fearful that perhaps their addiction had caused a form of hallucination that block out the real battle. But the commander was fully conscious and well-aware. The sight remained true.

"Forget those ghouls, get to the chapel!" shouted a familiar, yet haunting woman. How fortunate that the once-ranger general stood not too far from the peeved farstrider. It was the new ranger general of Silvermoon, Halduron Brightwing, that promoted Solanna as one of his lieutenants after her great success against the Shadowpine and Amani troll outbreak in the Ghostlands. Since then, she was sent for some of the most perilous and important tasks. To meet Sylvanas here on the battlefield, it was both an honor and an abhorrence, a testament left behind in the Scourge's wake. Word had it that spectral husk of an elf was only a fraction of the Sylvanas Windrunner Solanna heard tales of as an adolescent. War hero or not, the farstrider was eager to find out the meaning of this pitiful battle. She charged forward, jamming her buckler into the face of a putrid assailant along the way. With a flattened face did it crumple, her goal merely to get across the small expanse of gloomy fields. Several more met the same fate as she cut and smashed herself a path. Solanna reached the banshee queen at a sprint and watched as the former high elf gave her commands again. "Change of plans, everyone get to the chapel, immediately!" She stood there, ghastly and pale and so . . . dead.

"Lady Sylvanas Windrunner . . . I never thought I'd see the day," she began quietly. The Dark Lady turned to her with malevolent eyes. At the sight of the blood elves, her looks eased, like a stern mother gazing upon her children.

"So, you are of the Sin'dorei that have been deceived."

Those first words were both cryptic and disillusioning. Was this truly the Sylvanas she had admired throughout her years? Could it be true, that she was now just a dark entity that cared little about such serious circumstances?

"We've been deceived all our lives," she replied in kind. "By our ancient ancestors, by the Alliance, by the Scourge, and now by our fair prince, Kael'thas. Do you think I would be surprised by yet another deception? All that matters is that I will always fight for Silvermoon!"

"Hmm, that's refreshing," said Sylvanas, one hand under her eldritch chin, "being that all those in Silvermoon are in great peril."

"What?!"

"This was merely a distraction. Regent Theron fell for Magatha's ploy. Arthas is sending a true army to lay siege to Eversong Woods." Her words, dark and placid, were not even those of the real Sylvanas.

"Why didn't you send a messenger to an enclave? Why did you wait this long to tell us?! Answer me!" At Solanna's squalling, Sylvanas simply headed off to the chapel as she had previously ordered her men to. Outraged that the banshee, even as high and mighty as she was, would walk away from her like that, Solanna stalked behind, ready to question _her_ loyalty. However, once she reached the chapel, she could only stare in awe at the majesty of the place. Those Scarlet Crusaders must have remodeled the place since she'd last been inside during the better days. Despite the ravages of war, the pillars that decorated and supported the chapel still held strong. Portraits of various human noblemen lined the walls, particularly priests and paladins. At every bench, unlit candles sat lazily in their golden stands. In short, the place still remained a place of comfort. Yet, something in the room kept tugging at her instincts, something that struck her as a strange, overpowering sensation of raw arcane energies that have haunted the blood elves for so long. What was it Sylvanas had in mind by leading the Forsaken to this dreary place?

"Okay, blood elf, we're here," Sylvanas simply stated, as if she would suddenly understand now.

"There had better be a good explanation for this," Solanna replied equally. Her men followed just a few steps away of their lieutenant, so should the banshee queen try anything unusual, the odds would be against her. But still, she and her fellow undead did not present themselves as hostiles. Several robed and ravaged Forsaken marched before their dark queen, just in front of the altar, and at her behest, began charging arcane magic into some void. The queen of the Forsaken at last turned to Solanna, hopefully ready to explain herself.

"This place, once a religious sanctum of Hearthglen, was turned into a military strategy point by the Scarlet Crusade. It seems not even the unnoblest of creatures would ever suspect that a place like this would harbor an arcane enchantment of such power.

"After I discovered the truth of Magatha's betrayal, I, too, wanted to charge my forces to Eversong, to defend my former homeland, even as the meek undead here began their assault. But, my most talented magi tracked this beacon of energy first, just in time. With enough of this energy and enough casters gifted in the arcane arts, I deducted that we'd be able to use this temple's magics to mass teleport to a destination close to the woods of Quel'Thalas. I've no doubt that this was the intention of the enchantment, as I've long-since wondered how those nettlesome humans were able to be everywhere at once. But now it is ours. Are you prepared . . . ?"

"Yes, I am. Call me Sollana. And . . . I apologize for seeming rash at first. I shouldn't have doubted you so soon . . ."

"Enough with that. We've wasted enough time here."

"But wait, what about if the Lich King plans an attack here on your turf?"

Sylvanas smiled, one that seemed both charming and atrocious. "Well, then the Defilers under Varimatras will have their hands full. Besides, I'm leaving behind a new ally I've 'convinced' into my ranks." Solanna felt a slight chill run down her spine as Sylvanas finished her last words. Who knew what strange powers a banshee queen, once a ranger-general, could possibly have? And yet, Solanna no longer cared. The truth was that one had to be ruthless to survive in a world full of deceit. Sylvanas certainly knew this. Maybe it was time Solanna took after her former general.

* * *

-Ghostlands, on the outskirts of Eversong, moments into the true attack . . .

Plague clouds swarmed all about the outpost of Tranquillien. Plague wagons were the distributors. Even as they began the overpowered genocide, abominations, waving around sickles and chains, and the mindless ghouls laid waste to the defenders of the tiny Ghostlands station. Even now, Dame Auriferous and her escorts hid well into the one building so far untouched. Finally one of her escorts, Lieutenant Stormblade, spoke out first as the other listened for their killers.

"I'm going," he said solidly.

"No, Stormblade, you can't go alone!" It was none other than Halduron Brightwing, ranger general of Silvermoon, that protested.

"I have to," he stated. "Someone has to warn Silvermoon of this attack! Who in the capital would suspect the Scourge to strike from the Ghostlands after we've just booted them out of here?"

"Then, I'm going, too!" Brightwing offered.

"But, you were stationed out here to defend the Ghostlands! After all, you still have your farstriders out the Plaguelands. If you could hold off the offensive here, you may yet save this land we fought hard to cleanse!"

"Tranquillien is lost," Brightwing confessed. "The farstriders battle some diversion far away as we speak, I've no doubt. We've fallen right into the hands of death itself! But I refuse to let my city fall like it did in the Third War!"

"Then, let's go," Stormblade urged.

"What about me?" cried out Dame Auriferous, annoyed that she was paid little mind.

"What about you?" Stormblade hissed. "You either come with us, or you stay behind in these ruins of yours! It's that simple."

"Why don't you just feed me to the Scourge!" she hissed back.

"Oh, don't tempt me!"

"Why don't you two just stay quiet and _follow me_?" At Halduron's suggestion, they remained low, sneaking out of the building with the same caution as bandits. Their natural agility made it hard for anyone or anything to detect them. As they left, they were forced to stop in their tracks; plague clouds barred their way no matter which route they chose. Just one sniff of the stuff would infect their bodies slowly but surely.

"Damn," Stormblade cursed.

"Don't even think that we're finished yet," the ranger general advised. He grabbed an arrow from his quiver and unloosed his bow. As he strung the arrow, it began to glow brightly, the gleam of magic in its every fiber. He unleashed it, the projectile spinning wildly like a small, flying tornado. For that very instant, the greenish clouds of disease were cleared in a path left behind by the magic arrow. Still, the clouds threatened to engulf the path again, prompting the renegades. "Let's move!"

Stormblade and the dame ran ahead, Halduron taking the rear. He looked behind. Surely enough, the spell had caught the attention of the undead raiders. It soon became clear to the ranger that there was no way a single elf of any stature could stop the monsters that began to give chase. However, cunning was something all rangers had within them. He fired another arrow, the thing landing on the ground rather than at any marauder. The shambling dead paid no mind to it. With a sharp screech, it imploded, creating a blinding light that temporarily stopped them short. Some even continued pursuit, but in a totally different direction, completely bemuddled. Mindless troops were built for unrelenting strength, but not for strategy.

The diversion bought them only seconds, in reality.However, it was all they needed for the moment. Brightwing quickly sprinted through the thickening path. As he did, he removed his cloak and held it at his face. The smoggy air crept all around for only a few, but still it threatened to suck out his soul. When the area started becoming more sanitary, he took a moment to glance around. Tranquillien, sadly, was lost. It was the stationary base of success, marking the Sin'dorei's first true victory against the Scourge since the slaughter that happened all those years ago. Now, it was getting ripped and gutted by those relentless undead. Buildings and structures fell in burning heaps. Bodies of the very few guards who fought for the outpost lay like trophies for the Scourge. Even the statues of the two elves dancing at the square were mortally struck, the pair's heads and arms crushed off. The only beauty of the Ghostlands was now long gone.

"Halduron!" It was Stormblade who cut through his reveries of a time he thought the elves had triumphed. Nevertheless, he knew his duties. His commander and friend, Lor'themar Theron, needed to know that everything was just some masquerade, that he'd been betrayed by not just Magatha, but maybe even the Horde as a whole. More importantly, he needed to know that the Scourge planned an all-or-nothing attack on the capital, and that an attack from the northern coast was all it took to end everything. With no other true ally besides the shady Forsaken, they would have to assume it was their battle to fight alone.

"Do you want to get us all killed?" an even more furious Auriferous cried out.

"I'm with her on this one, let's get the hell out," the lieutenant barked.

Halduron nodded and the trio hurried along north. The ranger general felt his stomach knot as he quickly contemplated their alternatives. They could head straight up and face the horrors of the Dead Scar, a long, jagged rift in their land that eventually divided Silvermoon in two after Arthas' march to the Sunwell Grove. The Scar reeked of many undead servants left in Arthas' wake eager to make an offensive. The land itself was a caustic thing. Or they could make a round trip to the east through Suncrown Village. From there, they could travel the Amani ruins safely to the Farstrider Retreat. After all, Suncrown was just around the bend; he could see the town's spires peaking from the horizon.

"We'll head to Suncrown Village," Brightwing suggested. "From there, we'll . . ."

His words ended abruptly when he saw the attack on Suncrown. Just outside the town, skeletal warriors hammered the frontline defense, while lucid obsidian shades wreaked death spells onto the battlefield from afar. From the waters spawned murlocs, the unwholesome grip of death upon even their kind. Their assault had been completely unexpected, killing many elven commoners. They had painted the town in blood red within mere minutes. There was no such thing as mercy when it came to the abhorrent Scourge. Seeing this ruthless slaughter enraged the elven heroes. Without further delay, Brightwing and Stormblade rushed to the aid of their brethren.

"Wait," interrupted Auriferous, "I'll assist too!"

"Hmph, what could you do other than get in the way?" the lieutenant retorted.

She ran off ahead, stating only, "We are now Blood Elves. That means we fight for those who have fallen. My fair settlement lies in ruins, and the souls of hundreds of kindred spirits fly about in agony. Oh, vengeance, I shall surely see to it!"

Wordless, the other two went after her. Halduron made the first shot, sending a volley of three arrows into the undead horde. One shot knocked a head off the shoulders of one armored skeleton just as it finished cleaving an elf in two. The other two arrows merely drew attention. It was too late to give Stormblade any orders, for he already began his fight against the ravening monsters. The ranger then turned to the dame, his eyes filled with a strong sense of justice.

"Auriferous, can you hold off the murlocs until I finish cleaning the frontlines?" It was more a command than a question, but the fair red-headed elf replied with as much gallantry as any soldier.

"Selama ashal'anore!" she saluted.

With that, he fixed his eyes on the battle before him. Stormblade had his hands full with several ghouls and a necromancer. It was nothing he couldn't handle. A quick glance revealed a mob of troll zombies advancing from the undead ranks. They charged Halduron with the same prejudice they held in their former lives. Axes and spears gripped at the ready, they knew nothing more than to skewer and chop the elf to pieces. Halduron waited for the perfect moment. When the putrid bunch, seven, eight trolls easy, came just near enough, he somersaulted backward with ease. Just as easily as he did so did the mindless trolls fall for his trap. The iceshard trap worked just as well as it had when he hunted down the trolls of Zul'aman. They entered the mist without a hint of exasperation; just that same single-mindedness the undead exhibited. In all their recklessness, they began to freeze over as the inlaid, nearly invisible snare did its job, unleashing icy frost from the nether. Their full-run to the blood elf turned into a pitiful march of snails. He finished them individually, his arrows shattering them the same way Tranquillien shattered. He then turned to a group of writhing Nerubians, entering the village perimeters from the direction of the Dead Scar. The spider-people took sight of the fallen trolls, and then at Halduron. It was only the beginning of the fight.

* * *

Auriferous didn't have much luck. She was an avid spellcaster, a mage of some renown. But most of her training did her little good against creatures of darkness. Her electic bolts, however, was the perfect spell to launch at the slimy opaque creatures as they wriggled from the tainted depths of the Elrendar River. Pure energy seethed within their puny, amphibious bodies, winning her their infamous deathcries; like the sound of drowning gnomes. Still, for every three to five zombified murlocs downed, six arrived to replace them. She did manage to save the helpless townspeople from danger, but she alone could not keep the marauders at bay.

"A little help here!" she shouted, looking about quickly for anyone who could help. Nobody. She continued her faltering attack, her mana supply running low, her craving for it even more maddening. She heard a faint noise off to her right, causing her to lose concentration. She couldn't stop chanting, or the murlocs would surely reach her and, eventually, the village. She thought up an idea. She let a group near her purposely. Just as sudden as they began to swing their daggers and rods, she unleashed her frost nova on them, encasing them in an ice shelling that would hold them off for enough time to near her allies.

There came the noise again, this time more prominent. It was the sound of presence, the feeling that someone ominous was nearing. She could feel the arcane whispering to her in her elven ears; something foul was afoot. Tales of a terrible fate foretold by "arcane whispers" were always read to her as a child as a means to deter the young from reckless use of magic, but Auriferous would not be swayed. Faster than a second, she cast her blink spell, teleporting a safe sixty feet away-

-except, when she reappeared, she bumped straight into a large, threatening figure. She didn't have time to look up, only time to react. She meant to fire an instant blaze of fire onto her assailant, but her hands were suddenly snuffed. The muscular figure firmly grabbed hold of her arms with no trouble at all. The arcane energies around it were too strong, both invigorating and torturous. Something, perhaps a barrier, prevented any further magic use. After that, Auriferous lost all consciousness, only a strange coldness embracing her.

"You seem skilled enough," came a voice, like a distant echo. "And your taint is delicious. Yes. You are eligible. Do not fear. Your torments, addictions, and obligations end here." She tried to open her eyes, to see this strange man who made her feel terrified and ecstatic all at once. "Do not fear. You are saved."

* * *

Auriferous was nowhere to be seen, and the ranks were starting to fall. Halduron knew the Scourge's largest force was just a walk away at Tranquillien, finishing off the place before heading up north to the next nearest town: Suncrown Village. With the dame gone or dead, the murlocs were running rampant throughout the tiny refuge. It was time to make haste. With Stormblade gathering the rest of the townspeople, the ranger general marked them a path as quick as he could and gave the orders.

"Stormblade, take the remainder of the town defense and gather the survivors northeast!"

"Towards Tor'Watha?" he asked with awe. "That troll graveyard's cursed! Surely you want us all killed!"

"It's the only sure route the Scourge will not bother heading to. From here, their next target will be Fairbreeze Village, the last nearest town to Silvermoon. Trust me, they won't give chase to you there!" With that last assurance, Halduron wound up the northern path, towards the Dead Scar.

"Where in the nether are you going?!"

"I can't let Fairbreeze fall without a fight! I have to at least warn them so they can evacuate the commoners into the safety of the capital."

"You're so sure the capital won't be obliterated, right? Because if you're wrong, the Sindorei are finished because of you. No pressure, though." Finishing his statement with a snicker, he saluted his commander and sighed wearily. "Al diel shala, my brother. Brightwing, you had better be right about this."

Halduron waited just a moment longer to see his people be led off to an uncertain fate. It was the best he could do for them. He wouldn't force them to bear arms and fight against such death-lusting monsters. And he certainly couldn't ask them to follow him down the Dead Scar. To those undead, the elves were a bunch of frightened succulent pigs, ready to be feasted on. He wouldn't have any of that. With a heavy heart, he pried his eyes from the gruesome scene, the remains of those who fought bravely at Suncrown. In the distance, he felt the overpowering sensation of death looming its way over. He solemnly wished the dead, Dame Auriferous among them, the peace they deserved, and in an act of pure grief and respect, gathered magic into his arrow. Flames surged from the arrow's tip. He flung it, the projectile jumping from his bow to the broken frontline of the murloc-infested village. Dumbly, the slimy invaders watched as the arrow hit the ground before them and exploded. The conflagration melted the rotting skin off the unsuspecting murlocs. It also sizzled away the structures nearby, burned away any goods that lay strewn about, and incinerated the corpses of his dead compatriots. The Scourge may have won their ground, but they would never win the souls of the blood elves.

The plague wagons broke the horizon, but Halduron was already gone. It was time to save his home. Down the Scar he went, the very air around it putrid. He hid himself behind a tramped tree whose roots dangled lifelessly like some dead spider. Through the thick purple haze, he could only make out faint movements of figures with skin flaps and other parts hanging. That was at his left. To the right of the Dead Scar, where it edged north toward the capital, only stillness. A broken-down wagon lay on its side, a perfect cover for him as he tried to make it across to the other side. Halduron took the chance, laying another arcane trap down as he bolted. The ranger didn't even look back, diving for the cover of the wagon. Before taking off again to the opposite border of the Scar, he heard the explosion of his trap go off. The blaze trap worked like a hidden goblin land mine. He heard the scrappy voice of undead as they blew up into bit-sized pieces. Once out, the hunter then sped through the forests, taking every shortcut he knew of. Even as swift as he was, the Scourge would still claim Fairbreeze in a matter of minutes. The only luck he had was that the battle had not turned aerial . . . yet. Then again, he wasn't sure if the coast remained unscathed. That last thought forced more energy into Halduron's limbs. He leapt off one last bough when he landed before a contingent of blood elf fugitives. The leaders of the contingency stood in total awe at the sight of Halduron descending right in front of them. The ranger general felt a tinge of panic well up at the view of the marching brigade. Had he been too late? Was the western coast attacked?

"General Brightwing! Thank Silvermoon you're okay, but . . . what happened to the others? Is . . . is Tranquillien . . . ?"

"We need to evacuate the townspeople of Eversong to the safety of Silvermoon! I'm afraid the Ghostlands is lost to us for now." A brief silence filled the once determined group of soldiers. Losing the Ghostlands was a major blow to the prideful elves. Now they were going to prepare for war on their own home turf. Nothing was more cruel than watching their home and brethren fall at the hands of the ghoulish monsters. "But there is hope. Even as we speak, Stormblade leads the survivors of the Ghostlands to the capital. United together on one field, the blood elves shall win. We need to hurry . . ."

"There's a problem," interrupted another one of the party leaders. "Do you recall an infamous turncoat by the name Dar'khan?"

"Why, yes, of course. How could I forget. Dar'khan Drathir was that traitorous bastard who revealed to Arthas the location of the Sunwell. Lucky for us the powers of the Sunwell incinerated him in the end."

The whole party wore grim looks, ones that further worried Halduron. "General, he was seen in battle, was brought back somehow. By the Scourge. He leads the attack here unto Eversong. Our scouts located his base of operation, right above the Plaguelands, at a place he calls Deatholme. Before we knew it, the dead scar became rife with the undead."

"I see. Anything else your scouts confirmed?"

"No, sadly. Our infiltration team is already working on acquiring any schematics or orders given to the traitor by the Lich King. For now, we agreed to stem the infection spreading at the Scorched Grove."

Halduron remembered the "Scorched Grove" very well. That incident involved the elves taking drastic measures during the first invasion of the Scourge. The blight fanned out by Arthas had started to reach Eversong to the southwest. It was so bad, that all life ceased in that area; it clearly became a bastion for the evil that Arthas set up. And so, with their hearts bleeding grief, the rangers agreed to burn down those woods.

"Why defend there?" he questioned.

"The grove is a perfect staging area for an attack on Sunsail Anchorage, where our docks lie. We need those docks to sail our townspeople up the Elrendar River and into the capital. I know what you're thinking. Why not march them straight north? Murlocs destroyed the bridges over the river there, stranding us here below the capital! After dispatching the undead cretins, we decided sailing would be the safest and fastest alternative to swimming or using magic."

"Then, what are we waiting for?" Halduron exclaimed, running back into the woods. "We have to act fast! For Silvermoon!"

So did the others follow suit. The blackness of the forest was something from their past, something familiar and comfortable. Slivers of sunlight cast their rays like a blessing from some pitying foreign goddess. The elves thrived beneath it. Eventually, the grove gave itself away, the land razed down to the soil. Several blades of new grass and other seedlings gave the hope of renewal, but there was no telling how badly the land was tainted here. Off in the distance, the party observed a saddening event. At the grove-site, their long-time allies, the treants, tended to the dying vegetation. It seemed forever, their little alliance. Before the invasion, before even the Lordaeron Alliance, the high elves had befriended these tree-like beings. Together, they watched over the woodlands of Eversong with dignity and reverence. After the elves were forced to scorch the grove, though, the treants grew confused. They still believed, in spite of Arthas' corruption to the woods, that it could be saved, but the elves learned all too soon the horrible truth. Thus, was it burned down, along with any treants who barred their way. Perhaps now they were enemies . . .

"What do we do, General?" asked a party leader.

"What do you mean by that?" he responded equally. "We let them be. Have we not done enough to them? Besides, the Scourge must lurk nearby. We must stop them at all costs!"

After a brief moment, Halduron began his descent down the hill they currently stood on. Coming into view was the great sea, the southwestern coast of Eversong. There, a rather meager group of undead consisting of murlocs, ghouls, and mud shamblers continued to converge. The elves could see the rotting dead picking off the treants one by one, trying to stem their healing of the ruined grounds. Close by was the reason for this. At the center, stood a summoned graveyard; the soldiers of Fairbreeze were right. Where there was a summoned Scourge structure, there were members of the Cult. A legion _was_ amassing here for an attack on the last means for elven salvation. Sunsail would not last under such a bombardment. Now it was their move, their time to make an aggressive strike. With a very limited number of fighters at his disposal, the ranger-general needed to choose his commands wisely.

"Here are the orders!" barked Halduron, the party completely attentive. "Priority goes to defending our old allies, the treants! I don't care about what we went through in the past; this is an order. Next priorities are given to the marksmen. You are to send the first strike, a barrage of whatever spell arrows you've got to the opposition guarding the graveyard. Any aerial defenders, take 'em out first. Casters will be tasked at ranged support and neutralizing any front-line offenses to our marksmen. Paladins, I want you all at the frontlines, with the priests scattered to heal the injured. Lastly, all special ops units shall join me in the siege of that foul structure! It is their primary source of recruiting undead to their ranks. Remember, this is a graveyard! Needless to say, it'll be thick with the rotting dead the moment we make contact. Watch your backs as well as those of your own compatriots. Anu belore dela'na! Let us march!"

And so did they march. Even as Halduron Brightwing led them into an uncertain battle, he felt a surge in his heart, a knowing that he was leading his people in the right direction. If, no, _when_ he made it to Silvermoon, the Blood Elves would make their final stand against the wretched Scourge.

* * *

-Outland. At the borders of Terokkar Forest and Nagrand, battle erupts . . .

Monsters alongside humans marched toward the elves at the least expected time. Kael'thas knew they were demons, those monsters. But, who they were aligned with was an utter mystery. It made little difference; what mattered was that he and his forces were caught unaware at a crucial time. His plans were half finished, and now war was about to break out. Kael'thas stood outside his tent at an encampment he had set up in Terokkar Forest, a vast expanse of odd, beautiful trees beneath a mythic sky. At the northern peak was where the camp was laid out, and now the horde of demons and their unlikely allies were about to descend upon them from the hilly terrain further north.

"All men to arms!" shouted Kael'thas, after being informed of the ambush.

The enemy forces headed down at them in an arrowhead formation. Cavalry ridden by both horse-ridden human knights and demons mounted on fel-creatures took the whole point of the arrowhead, while robed casters rode behind, apparently the "shaft" of the formation. It wasn't as large as the elven king had first pictured it, and chances were that he could pull off a decent defensive after all. Despite the unexpected attack, his forces were prepped and fully equipped long before their arrival. It was probably too late to give any strategic orders at this point, but so long as they could defend the encampment long enough to survive, his plans would see fruition. Kael'thas had a rather meager contingent of soldiers on his side, for he had not intended on doing much combat out in these forests. The majority had been mages, most of them nethermancers centralized in aiding the king. With only a handful of spellbreakers and paladins for defense, it wasn't going to be a walk in the park.

Then, something unexpected happened. The opposition's formation made a full change, something none of the elves foresaw. The arrowhead point slowed and opened up, allowing the shaft to dash through like a missile within an arrow. A black-armored knight with a flowing cape and a scythe-like weapon took the point, making it seem an army led by Death himself. Behind him marched the spellcasters, and to their sides rode the knights. Now, the enemy formation was more a wall of doom ready to lay siege to the tiny camp. There was no time to lose.

"Fire at will!" shouted Kael'thas, rethinking his options at the same time. His mages struck first, sending blazing projectiles at the frontline. The marauders then made another impressive move, though, one Kael had barely anticipated. The black knight summoned forth skeletal flying creatures from the ground, spiky shadowy things that screeched for blood. It was no surprise he was a dabbler of necromancy, but what was truly surprising soon bore its ugly face. Their purpose was more for defense rather than offense. Serving their necromancer master by the very last word, they whirled around in the air crazily like a hive of mutant undead bees. One by one, they dove straight for the fiery missiles directed at the charging cavalry. They were acting as a temporary shield for them, one that would stall long enough to reach their actual target. All they could do was cast and destroy. It was time the king took a stand.

Kael'thas channeled forth the darkest recesses of the nether and focused hard. With arms outstretched, he managed to summon magma and flames from beneath the ground. This spell would negate their petty and cowardly strategy. Nothing, not even undead, could resist the sweltering blast that surged from the very earth under their feet. Smelted stone rose up and launched several unfortunate soldiers and demons. They were shooting stars on the field of battle. Liquid magma spurted up through crevices, catching some in the conflagration and burning them alive. The wall formation seemed to falter for a moment as fire, bright and red, broke the horizon of warriors. To counteract that, several magi of the black knight's army began to cast a cunning tornado of ice and frost. The field suddenly became a pale blue-white as the war of magic continued. In seconds, the line was repaired again and fatally close by. It was nearly time for his pitiful frontline defense to meet the opposition, and still Kael had too little options left. He was even considering mass teleporting them all to an area far off, an exhaustive spell that might also backfire. However, they could not afford to be put to rout.

"For Nazjatar!" came a shrill from behind. He didn't even have to look behind him to know who it was. Before he knew it, lightning bolts and water magic began to fill the battlefield. Humans and demons fell indiscriminately. At last, the line had finally begun to diminish. Many lithe, slithering things filled the frontlines of the undermined elves, even as the enemy were to reach the camp. Naga water magic ensnared the cavalries' mounts, sending their riders flying off. Forked lightning strikes took out demons three at time. Those that were fortunate enough to survive the magic bombardment had their blades meet the tridents of the formidable Naga myrmidon. Even then, the myrmidons had their siren casters to sway the battlers. It was a sight to behold for Kael'thas. One sole figure slid beside him, none other than Lady Vashj.

"Vashj, I never thought I'd be so glad to see you."

"I'll take that as a compliment, _King_ Sunstrider," she hissed back. She gave him a grave look and spoke again. "Don't thank me for this, Kael'thas. I did this not to rebel against Illidan. It was merely the thing to do."

"'The thing to do', I don't understand," he replied, though gladness still in his voice.

"Of course you wouldn't. When I returned to the Black Temple in Shadowmoon Valley after our talk, there was a crisis stirring. Illidan was gone. He was nowhere to be found, as though he had just vanished. Akama and I took the liberty to search for him throughout the surrounding area, but to no avail. Even our scouts have not been able to track him throughout Outland. But they did notice the army of strange archaic demons making their way here. Without our leader, we would eventually fall to these invaders' hands. We had no other choice but to bring the battle to the enemy lest we risk war on our territories."

"Does it really surprise you, Vashj? That Illidan would forsake us?" Vashj glared at Kael with an irritation that belied the pain of truth. She tore her gaze from him and merely turned to the field of battle.

"I will hear no more of this, not until I figure out what truly happened to his lordship. Kael'thas, do what you have to do and get out of here! I'll drive these forces away before I regroup with you. I am placing my trust unto you."

Taking her advice, Kael'thas nodded in both approval and thanks. He signaled to his private service of expert nethermancers, a signal to reorganize. He gave the sea witch a valiant look, suggesting his appreciation to her somewhat indirect loyalty.

"Lead our people to victory here," he told her. "When the battle is done, meet back at Tempest Keep. These bastards, be it the forces of Kil'jaeden or otherwise, can take what's left of this wretched world for themselves! It is time we took a hold of our destinies!"

* * *

Kael'thas stood at a wall of stone on the dead mire of southeast Zandarmarsh. He and his men, soaked and weary after treading through the Outland marsh's storms, finally stopped short at the destination that had been cleverly hidden. The elven king would now initiate his plan without any delays. With one single wave of his hand, the mountain wall illusion he placed faded away, revealing a colossal cliff that was perhaps the land's end. Below, one might end up torn apart in the Twisting Nether that suffused the broken planet. It was no matter. With the aid of his nethermancers, a telekinetic bridge surged forward in an arcing path that led off to a floating debris of Draenor.

"This is it," he began, nervousness getting the best of him. "Let us go."

As they crossed, one of the mages let out a strangled gasp, catching the attention of the others almost immediately. Kael's assistants backed away when they saw the visage. A large sickle was plunged into the throat of one of mages through the back. There was no saving the young nethermancer, whose body quivered as, slowly, his life faded away. When the body slumped to the bloody floor, the black knight, who Kael'thas had called Death, came into view. He must have deviated from the battle to follow him, even if outnumbered. Yet, his tactics were obvious. He couldn't risk losing his nethermancers, for they were vital to his plan of desperation, and somehow he knew it; he had to finish him on his own.

"Go, all of you!" he told them. "I'll take care of him."

"But, King Sunstrider," protested a female nethermancer.

"Just go! It's an order!"

The others left their king with the mad knight and the elf corpse, ascending off to that strange floating rock. He felt the knight's piercing gaze, even through his full helm. Bull horns protruded from the helm like some demon's character. With the reaper axe and his flowing cape, he too seemed like the demons he commanded back in Terokkar Forest. Brandishing the blood off his weapon, he finally spoke.

"How mighty brave of you, elf. However, death is all-encompassing. As life arrogantly goes on pursuing things unreachable, death sweeps about like a serpent, silent and unseeable until it's too late . Do not even bother, for they too cannot evade death."

"Ah, how does that saying go? 'Death awaits the overconfident?' What irony." At Kael's snide comment, the armored warrior merely lifted his deadly polearm and took his stance.

"Enough. Today you meet your match. Hear the name Jeal and fall to your knees!" The black knight of death charged forward as if he hovered above ground. Even as he did, his night black armor hardly moved or clanged, surely an ethereal thing. The sickle came up and sliced the air above Kael, making a sound like that of a wailing soul. The blood mage, though, blinked out of existence for a fraction of a second. He reappeared several feet away, earning the sadistic laughter of his opponent. "A pitiful mortal evading death. Those who fear it most whet its appetite best."

The warrior, Jeal, had no idea the mage would fling a ball of ice the next moment. The frostbolt clung to his armor like creeping mold. Before he knew it, his body became overburdened by the dry ice. It was hardly an inconvenience, though, as soon he cast his own spells. Dark flames surged through his very being, shattering the ice like thinned glass. Soon, those flames spread out and darkened. They turned more and more malignant. A field of shadows cast over the elven king and plunged him into a world of ghostly faces and dark corridors. The place sounded like a slaughterhouse, where the cries of the dying pitched. Kael'thas tried to teleport out of the insane realm, but found himself unable to. All around, people from his past faded in and out, people he loved, people he hated, people he hoped to forget forever. It was a torment unlike anything he'd ever experienced. One figure stood out, though. That same figure charged him, an angel of death with a scythe. Kael'thas numbed his soul for small moment, suppressing the emotions the evil realm provoked, and clamped his palms together. From his fingers spurred flames like that of a dragon breathing fire. It poured, enveloping the racing figure. Then, a burst of fire rushed back at him, shoving him far and hard. The blackness faded, the mage lifting himself meekly from the ground. He coughed sporadically, for he lost his air during that massive strike.

"In death, I have grown out of my shell of ignorance and greed. Be glad that at least death shall grant you an eternal rest. You filthy mortals deserve a painful afterlife where you reap all that you have corrupted!" Kael'thas, even through his pain, glared at Jeal with scrutiny. He could have easily slain him in that dark world and where he fell. The knight was toying around, enjoying the thrill of the kill like some sick demon.

"There's no more room . . . for evil here," the Sunstrider king murmured, extending a hand out even as he got to his feet. Emerging from his palm flew several nearly invisible arcane missiles. The projectiles whirled through the odd skies of Outland, finding their way to the stationary target. Jeal raised his own hand and deflected the magic. One turned dark purple and was hurled back at its caster. The strike burned through armor and apparel like nothing, seeping into his soul and shoving Kael'thas back to the ground.

"Evil? Do not confuse my lord's intentions with that of your world's minions. I was brought back to life by the Magician of Avalon. He wins by fooling the weak against each other and inviting the strong at his side. He manipulates death and uses it like a tool in his belt. By his great judgement, his orders were to extinguish all life on this hunk of rock. What a waste. By the next orbit, death will once again sweep away the garbage and lay this new base clean for my liege. A new dawn will reign upon 'Outland'. Then, Azeroth shall be cleansed the same way."

Kael'thas tried to lift himself up, but could not find the strength. He tried hard to evoke mana within himself, to shield himself up somehow, but he felt the magic deplete itself; his addiction was taking over. He was run dried. A sitting duck, he merely lifted his head as the armored servitor of death stepped forward.

"Feeble. You are nothing without magic, elf. I saw your flaw. I felt your weaknesses. I smelled all that fear welling up inside. You don't possess the blood or soul of my master's. And as such, you cannot win."

The fallen king was ready to accept defeat, to tell him some last words that would disillusion his fervent drive. However, he knew what motivated Jeal. Even as he whispered it to himself, some other divinity answered for him:

"_The Nether beckons him. It's his lifeblood. How about you? Is your blood so different from his? Why does he thrive while you lay here, battered? Use your aura, break the seal that each mortal holds, for those who do not truly fear death use this aura in times of need. Your people need you, Kael'thas. You need to live. Break the seal! Suck him in! Sustain yourself by draining the unworthy from life!"_

"No!" he shouted, lifting himself with a newfound strength. Something deep within him snapped, and stood with more assurance. "There is no more room for your evil!" Jeal took one step back, obviously confused. If the blood mage could have seen through his black helm's visor, he would have seen terror on the face of death. It was fine, though, for he now smelled the fear dripping from his very being. He was right, that Jeal; death was all-encompassing. It dwelled inside him all along. And now, it swelled from every part of his body.

Kael'thas now hovered above the ground, the flames of darkness smoldering around him. With a glint of his eyes, he unleashed a spell he had never before spoke. "Izhna Gebalesh'na," he muttered, words in a language he never spoke. But somehow he knew it translated to _Dark Quest_. Somehow, he knew how to cast it, how to control it. The demon spell surrounded Jeal in the same darkness that he placed unto him. Even now he clutched his head in utter torment, crying out in echoing reverberations.

"_Suck him in!"_ he heard once again.

And with his hand held out to Jeal's downed head, he did so. Green energy stringed out like tendrils and engulfed the now-pitiful black knight. Thoughts and memories surged through Kael's mind, visions of a great nobleman who worked under a king in a foreign land. Memories of this noble turned to that of a knight in black armor feared throughout the land, protecting a young prince, fighting rebels . . . and eventually succumbing to darkness. He remembered a friend named Rhade, and the fight against the great rebellious army led by the traitorous son of Ankiseth the Steadfast, where he was slain. It all streamed into his subconscious, as though they were memories that had belonged there all along. When it was all over, nothing was left save for the horned black armor and the scythe; Jeal was gone.

* * *

Halduron had slain at least fifteen acolytes in his siege of the graveyard tower. The entranced cultists proved no great threat as the ranger cut his way through. At the small tower's last room, he encountered the chief Scourge minion in charge of the operation at the Scorched grove border. The elf snickered when he found the pitiful wide-eyed acolyte cornered like some hapless bug. The undead robed creature back away slowly, as to conjure up some defenders or cast a quick cheap-shot spell. It came to no surprise to Halduron when his hands came up and purple swirls of dark magic surrounded the necromancer. That's when the rogues of Murder Row swept in from their stealthed positions and did their job.

One rogue struck a kidney shot at the dilapidated undead, having some disorienting effects. The other rogue dashed behind it with two short swords held at the throat. One move and the ghoul would end up headless. Halduron lifted a hand, signaling a pause. The elves of Murder Row obeyed. Listening to the struggles outside on the graveyard grounds made the general even more anxious as he approached.

"You hold hardly any honor, I know. But I shall ask you anyhow. What intentions do the Scourge have by taking Eversong?" As predicted, a crooked smile was splayed onto the pale gray face of the robed horror. The acolyte was likely going to give up nothing.

"You are a bright elf, aren't you? Figure it out yourself!"

Halduron, with much restraint, kept his composure and smiled back. He gestured to the one rogue standing idly by. A vial was produced from within his cloak.

"Why don't I just _convince_ you, then? How does that sound?" The acolyte's facial expression changed to one of suspicion and contempt, also just as he predicted. Its wrinkled face once again bore a wicked smile.

"What have I to fear? I am dead, pledged to the almighty Lich King! Nothing you do to me can be so torturous as to reveal anything!"

"I beg to differ," he retorted, closing in on the kneeling deadkin. "As long as your body still remains organic and your brain, although rotten to the core, still exists intact, the potion shall allow me to tweak into your heinous little thoughts." The Scourge minion hardly had time to try and escape, let alone express his panic. Halduron watched as the rogue administered the potion into the gagging creature's mouth, and moments sooner, he grew limp. Arcane energies were expelled from it in nauseating waves. Being one not to delve too deep in the arcane, the ranger-general winced for a moment, but then found himself navigating through the dark and cold world of the dastardly thing. There, he discovered just how careful and meticulous the Lich King was with sending his higher-ups. In fact, it was Dar'khan Drathir himself who ordered this pathetic incompetent to lay waste to the western coast. Perhaps he had not expected a fight on their turf. Either way, Brightwing was pleased to find that bit of information, as well as the turncoat's exact whereabouts, something to hold onto for later. First, Silvermoon and the blood elves took priority. And that meant figuring out any trace of why the Scourge were here.

And then he found it. The tiny memory was vague, but promising at the very least. He finished his trance and slammed his knee at the cretin's face. Thick, nearly-black blood gushed out as he came to. Whether he was in pain or not Halduron could not tell, but he was nonetheless unnerved by the experience.

"What portal were you designed to make way for?" the elf spat, walking away just enough to see the battle outside end in their victory. Stupified, the undead assumed that the ranger had gotten _everything_ from his head using that potion. And so to spite the bitter creature, the acolyte laughed maliciously, licking the blood that trickled like heavy glue down to his lips.

"Why, your precious city is where the portal opens. I'm sure you've heard of the wrinkles of portals opening from time to time, causing arcane disturbances and releasing demons. But that's not it. Many portals shall appear simultaneously throughout all of Azeroth, unleashing a wave of demons and undead like never before! You shall all die! There's nothing you can do! You'll join our ranks! You shall . . ."

More thick blood smeared all about as an arrow plunged directly through the thing's face. It slumped forward to the ground, grinning wildly. Halduron, on the other hand, wore a stern look. He was about to lead the civilians of Eversong into a grueling hell he had thought to be the last haven.

* * *

The floating rock was higher than he had anticipated. Kael'thas took one last look down at the odd fields he had thought would be the blood elves' home. No more. Fate had beckoned. King Sunstrider would answer that call.

He suppressed the racing thoughts in his head of that unusual battle down below with Jeal, for as hard as he may try, he wouldn't understand. Even as he thought about it, everything about the knight was lodged somewhere in his mind, a saved memory. Whatever had happened could wait, he thought. Now was the time to finish it. He tore his gaze off of Outland, the sight mind-numbing. Over the great expanse, he could see the great demon-human army destroying outpost after outpost in their unrelenting march to "cleanse" the torn world. No one, Horde or Alliance, was safe from their rampant trample across the land. Most on either faction had already begun to retreat, heading toward Hellfire Peninsula where the Dark Portal kept its vigil. That sight was enough to hurry him along. He turned to face his fellow nethermancers, who kept grim, but determined eyes upon their leader.

"Let us leave this horrible place at once," he stated softly.

On that floating hunk of earth where they stood loomed a temple, well at least part of one. The interior lay open like some old gutted corpse. Hundreds of vines stringed down as though life had no qualms about existing this far from reality. It seemed like a renewal to their souls, these otherwise bland lifeforms. Kael entered the crumbled edifice and, once again, like that one time, glimpsed the strange artifact that lay on a pedestal. It was an orb of immense power that just happened to have been left behind during one of the many wars here on Draenor. It seemed plausible, even, that it existed during the times of the second war. Nevertheless, it was an advanced object and had probably been set in some holy structure by the Draenei, perhaps. The king of the blood elves stood before it with utter exultation. After several visits to this place after sensing its aura for so much time now, he had managed to discover what its purpose was. Noting the Draenei's Exodar technology, he figured out it was some sort of fast-space travel device; namely, a device the alien creatures used to get here in the first place. It took lots of contemplation and tinkering, but Kael'thas was almost certain that with the aid of several superior tappers of the arcane, the object could be manipulated to travel to various places of interest; namely Azeroth. As he thought it, his noticed he was absently fingering the vial of sacred water given to him by Illidan, the single little vial that will give the blood elves their rightful absolution. But first thing was first.

He finally began to channel magic from the Twisting Nether, a cue that signaled the others to as well. He tapped into the mana directly, using great mental strain to control the flow into the device. It was a gigantic cache of mana, considering the nethermancers were among his strongest and greatest. Still, he persevered. His mind entered a separate state of being, a very free and clear one, and soon enough found himself traversing the Great Dark for the first time ever. He felt powerful magic flowing freely all about him, power that threatened to tear him apart if he wasn't careful. Torrents of familiar ones also frolicked, and they diverged from the nearby Twisting Nether that hugged the shattered world. Magically, he guided the orb, the rock, and all on it toward Netherstorm, where his Tempest Keep hovered in arcane chaos. Purple hazy clouds swirled all about. Magic lightning tore the land apart on a constant basis. Thousands of stone debris of all sizes orbited the half-Outland, half-Twisting Nether skies. Like some teleportation, they appeared instantaneously right beside the keep. Kael'thas and the mages were nearly out of breath, but they regained their composure quick as the time clock ticked. With a brusque nod to his loyal subjects, Kael readied himself for a massive teleportation spell. Using the device as a basic foundation for the otherwise impossible magic spell, the master blood mage forced everything he had unto the fortress. As ordered, the bridges to the keep were obliterated. All of the outside defenders noted Kael'thas with mystified and awed faces. They all pointed and gaped at what he was planning to do. He even noticed some Naga within Tempest Keep, hopefully meaning Vashj made it on time. If not, she and her forces would have to fight their way for the portal on the peninsula. Either way, he was going in for the final push. Kael'thas lit up like a true sun. He was brighter than any lightning bolt in Netherstorm. Nothing could focus on that radiance, even though it lasted for a mere few seconds. However, to the former prince, it was an unearthly pressure and pain and struggle that seemed to last for hour after agonizing hour. He felt his head compact, his veins dilate as though they would burst at any moment. His shoulders were as though someone had placed a kodo on them. His legs quivered, eventually buckling as he begged himself to keep up the spell or risk self-mutilation. It was excruciating.

Before he passed out, he saw the wondrous skies of Eversong breeze past, and then blackness.

* * *

-Somewhere on Outland, away from battle . . .

Blackness still stained his eyes. He had flown for almost several moons already, but that voice had ceased its calling. It sounded almost like that angelic voice of Tyrande's. It's what broke him out of his delusions, his rage, his sadness. It felt as though that battle at Icecrown had been merely the other day, as though moments before, Tyrande stood staring as he vanished into his domain to prepare for the strike on the Lich King. Everything shattered after that; his life, his mind, his world . . . his heart.

But this voice called to him, told him that his blood was good, that his _true_ purpose was fated to him beyond if he could just follow it. At the moment Illidan heard that pleasant, soothing voice, he snapped from his reality and left his Black Temple in pursuit of the angel he presumed to be Tyrande. Deep down, he knew it wasn't she who graced him with her beautiful voice, but even pretending it to be so was far less cruel than the fate given to him in Outland. He no longer cared for his followers, or for Kael'thas, Vashj, Akama, or even that little vermin, Maiev. It was as though they were all part of a bad dream he had just woken from. However, instead of lush white skies, he was led to a damned darkened one in the point of no return. He floated there, lost, his hands on his forehead in utter frustration and sorrow and anger. He no longer even used his wings, not interested in whether or not he was aloft or soaring to uncertain peril. He couldn't even begin to wonder how he was still alive. The voice was gone, and that was all that mattered.

_Illidan . . ._

The sound was pristine, clearer and more haunting this time. But it was not that of Tyrande's. There was finally a sight in that dark, dark place. The figure looked like a woman, and while he hoped deeply for it to be the night elf woman he cared so much about, he knew it wasn't her from the moment she appeared. The woman looked night elven by mere looks, but seemed more . . . mystical. Though she flew to him with pitch-black wings, they didn't move from their place. She wore some unfamiliar headdress that let her purple-silver hair flow out in the windless void. Leathers gripped her body like a second skin, revealing yet tasteful; strange for some ethereal being. Was she the angel that called to him?

_Illidan . . . you probably do not know me well . . . but I am Aviana, a messenger thought fallen in wars from the past. Your destiny lies through this final point. I've been tasked to guide you through to the other world, the Twin World._

"Twin . . .World?" he asked, stunned.

_You must hurry. The other avatars await. Only you, in league with the others, can change the fate of Azeroth, since it is that you want._

"What I want . . . ? What I want?!" Those words were flaming daggers to his face. What would anyone know about what he truly desired? Anyhow, it wouldn't be Azeroth that was for sure, but . . .

_How about Tyrande? Her home is on Azeroth. Would you want to see her dead? Wouldn't that matter to you?_

"Yes! Yes . . . it does. She is my past. Azeroth . . . is my past. How . . . can I change Azeroth?"

_Follow me, Illidan. Let me take you to this place. The place of legends. The place where you'll get to redeem yourself for your mistakes. The place where Tyrande awaits._


	18. Motives

-Chapter 18-

-Serenity Isle, after their escape from Theramore, they contemplate their next move . . .

The moon graced the view off of the floating island. It was a refreshing sight after all that has happened. The glowing white orb sent its reflection wavering onto the ocean's undulating surface, the serene visage allowing Jedo to think deeply. Trying to piece everything together was no easy task, especially when too many questions flooded the events over. Still, he could say several things he knew was for certain.

Demons had some heinous part in all of this, meaning the forces of darkness pulled some strings. Maybe it was "Ogre Battle", an altogether foreign event. He had first-handedly witnessed this more than once. And there was the whole "otherworldly" instance described vaguely, if not cryptically, by the jaded princess, Scarlet. Additionally, there was the turmoil that had begun to blanket Azeroth yet again, not that it was too hard to believe. But still, this time felt different, as though the denizens of this world were biting their own legs as an inciter watched with wicked glee. Then, at last, there were the questions about his father, the general of Stormwind. He had known for some time the general knew so much more than he wanted to admit, but why would he want it to end like this, so unfinished. So alone.

"Jedo?" a voice broke in to disrupt his thoughts. "It's me, Scarlet." Jedo shut his eyes, pain beginning to well up within his emptying soul. Only solitude seemed to ease the disembowelment. "Sorry to bother you right now. I can actually say I know how you must feel. But . . . I just wanted you to know that, like in my situation, you too have people around you who are there for you and will listen when you are ready to talk. You don't have to bottle up everything you feel to comfort the rest of us. That's what you have friends for, Jedo." He merely remained silent. Yet, she seemed satisfied with it anyway.

Instead of leaving him with those words, she sat right beside him on the lush, green grass. Unearthly trees swayed back and forth as a soothing ocean breeze wafted over the island. This place was the perfect spot for a secret getaway. However, it felt wrong while many others worldwide were suffering and dying. Jedo finally glanced at the princess and found her staring up at the moon and stars, just as he had earlier. Perhaps they had more in common than he had originally thought.

"Tell me, what happened in Palatinus? Why are you here despite having your own world to save? Aren't there people suffering there?" Scarlet gave out a bittersweet smile, her eyes glinting with a lamenting despair.

"I can't give you an easy response," she began, her voice faltering. "Too many things decided my resolve. The wars in Palatinus had gone on for too many years, intensifying, and my father, the general at the time, had just taken the crown after the previous king died without an heir. Nothing became simpler after that. My parents had my brother, Aeneas, and not long after I was born. All my life, I was surrounded by war. I was destined to become a princess of war. I guess that was my fate. My mother, the queen had suddenly vanished during the onset of the invasion from the west. Shortly after, my older brother was missing in action during a fierce battle and later presumed dead. My father subsequently became obsessed with the war, seeing it and Lodis as the prime sources of all misery and strife. Meanwhile, I grew up with the necessity of being a warrior and leader. Even through all my training, deprived of a life of fulfillment, I had proven incompetent. The border of my kingdom was in a stalemate with the empire. Then, Lodis, had struck an alliance with the island kingdom Valeria and the Republic of Rihitofros. With all of western Galicia under Lodisian control and the other two nations to the east and south, Palatinus was essentially under siege. Our only allies, Zenobia to the south and Nirdam to the west, soon had their hands full as well. The scales had turned, and it took a true war hero to keep us from ultimate damnation. That hero should have been me, but . . ."

"Wait," interrupted Jedo, "you? What happened to the king, your father?"

"My father . . . was assassinated. That was the official story. The truth was actually too hard for my people to bear. King Magnus Gallant the ineffable had, indeed, fallen to the very thing he fought against for a long twenty years. The Infernal Aura, the darkness that consumed the hearts of so many heroes, slithered its way into my father's despairing heart. Unable to combat its temptation any longer, he let go. The great king was forced to be executed, lest we risk exposing the corrupted, evil king of Palatinus. It was I who did the horrific deed when I encountered him in his chambers, performing a dark summoning ritual on his servants. There was no other way. Such a sight would have thrown the fair people of Palatinus into hysteria and desperation. Everything would fall apart. The realization that no one else remained on the throne struck me so suddenly, I was in shock. But, as queen, I had a duty to fulfill. I needed to see through this war and make sure everything my father fought for, Palatinus' freedom from the tyrannical Lodis included, was not in vain. But the battles did not go so well, even with the aid of the greatest tacticians known in the kingdom; after all, there was no tactic for an already doomed kingdom. Minutes before Palatinus' fall, my council and I came up with the last possible hope: full retreat, to another realm.

"An elderly mer woman had traveled far from the Sea of Rai to deliver to me a prophecy on the eve I was to declare my defeat. While her powers seemed mystical and dangerous, I could tell she meant us no harm. She appeared . . . essential to some strange degree. She told me my greatest attribute was that of duty and honor, that I was Palatinus' shining star of hope. She also told me that my older brother was still alive somewhere, that although it meant he was king, my role as a member of the royal family would be the salvation of my kingdom. She then went on to say how the best way to save my people from death and misery was to abandon them. Abandon my fair kin, and fight another day. It made no sense. Why would I want to leave my land to those monsters? The mer woman vanished shortly after, leaving me alone to my thoughts. Then, the following night, I was nearly assassinated in my sleep by a Lodisian agent until Vincent and Laya came to my rescue. They had told me that the old mer woman sent for them to save me, that Lodis had schemed to merely kill me off and place a new figurehead leader at the throne. And what's more, she gave me a red gem that would take me to Gaia's 'twin world', a place I could stay until the 'destined ones' could rejoice. Slowly, now I'm beginning to understand where this is going. Unite our worlds, fight under one banner now that both our oppositions are on the same side. But yes, on the day of defeat we made the choice, and using our strongest magi to channel into the gem, we ended up here, in this hostile world with the red gem shattering to pieces and becoming weaker with each shard that cascaded off. To make things even more troubling, our most gifted magi were separated from us, truly stranding us here with the few flawed gems we could muster."

". . ." Jedo's silence was not an assuring sign to Scarlet, yet she accepted it. She wiped her glimmering eyes, afraid to let any signs of grief show. She rose from the green ground and unsheathed her sword, staring up at it as it gleamed in the moonlight. Jedo, too, got to his feet.

"This is the last thing I have to remember my father by, at least until I return to Gaia, my world. My sword is my father's, his very being lying dormant within. Even now, he guides my every move and protects me. That, and my determination and trust in my destiny, is what gives me the strength to press onward. Jedo, I want you to be by my side when we defeat Lodis. I . . . know it's something too great to ask of a person I've just met, but I feel you are something more than an average ally. Your valor, your care for precious lives. You are a hero, deep inside. You don't have to answer my request now, but please think about it." The blue-haired princess began to stride off, her cape wavering brilliantly in the wind. That was when Jedo felt too many things welling up within. The emptiness had dissipated.

"Scarlet, wait," he replied immediately, taking a step forward. "My father was right. I do have some dire destiny to face. I can't deny it, either. Ever since I met you, everything changed into something even more surreal that Azeroth's secrets can't even top. My mind has already been made, I'll go with you and help you defeat Lodis." The young princess partially blushed, for whatever the reason was, but seeing her smile and her reddish cheeks perk up, livening her eyes, made something within Jedo spark. Something suppressed and half-dead, something unused. He, in turn smiled, if only mildly.

"Is that a promise?" she asked playfully, leaning forward with her hands held behind her back. She actually made herself seem childish, despite her regal demeanor. "Ha, ha, ha! You don't have to answer that, you know. I was only kidding. Hey, don't give me that look, I said I was kidding! Now just follow me."

Scarlet suddenly took hold of his wrist and quickly ushered Jedo to where the others had organized. Amidst all the exotic trees were decorative beads and feathers hanging all over. Several hammocks hung on those trees, and he noticed that most were not currently in use. An orange glow illuminated a clearing where voices reverberated throughout the jungly habitat. Jedo saw the laboring goblins among the incomplete structures before him, a mess of wooden walls and towers that he presumed would be their base of operations in some near future. But it looked _big_. He felt his stomach knot at several thoughts of what it might mean. But deep down, he had already known. Many faces turned their attention to him, including humans, orcs, and trolls. Of the humans there, only their distinct armor mantles told of their lineages.

"I got him," Scarlet amiably told the innermost group, who lay in a circle around the fire. They had apparently saved him a seat, a red cushion laying between Chappy and Pala. Thrall and Jaina, both leaders of their own orcish and human factions, were also present. He nodded to the group and sat down, wiping several strands of dark, black hair from his face that had grown longer during the course of their adventure. Scarlet remained standing, for once, away from her elven guard who too sat amongst the others. Lucrecia, the tactician from the princess' world, took her own place at Scarlet's side after speaking to some girl Jedo had never before seen. Everyone quieted down to hear what the women had to say.

"People of Serenity Isle," came Scarlet's soft-spoken voice. "We stand here united for a common good. I hardly think I need to touch up on that. For those who do not know me, I am Scarlet Gallant, princess of Palatinus on Gaia. Right now, we are naught more than a ragtag team of rebels trying to merely survive against unusual odds. However, tomorrow promises us a new chance, a chance to bring change to this new world and the parallel world beyond. Through my journeys here on this world, I've seen the troubles that have arisen. Tension, conspiracies, the presence of demonic beings. You see, we have concluded that this 'Azeroth' shares a close, adjoined bond with our Gaia, which suffers the same maladies. As a last resort, we came upon a means to enter this domain so that we may rethink our strategies and possibly gain new allies. However, a common foe of ours, the Holy Lodis Empire, who holds the reigns to this chaos has followed us through the portal. They will hunt us down to the ends of Azeroth. As the burdens of this world, it is our duty to assist in driving Lodis back. Then, we can concentrate on how to reclaim Palatinus from where we stand. In lieu of this, as a representative of the Palatinean Royal Family, I deeply apologize to Lady Jaina and Warchief Thrall, as well as the rest of Azeroth's denizens for the horrors committed by the beings of Gaia. I hope that we can still maintain an alliance despite the trouble we've caused." Beside her, Lucrecia gave Scarlet a nod, and the princess nodded back. "And now, my advisor has some words regarding our next moves. I hope our negotiations will strike for a bright future." The young lady bowed deeply, a gesture probably common in her kingdom. Despite her honest, ardent words, the audience, who were now the defenders of two worlds, kept their silence. The members of the inner circle gave their applause in attempt to show their support and enthusiasm. Still, given the current predicament, morale would remain low until things sounded a little less hopeless. That was Lucrecia's cue.

"Things look pretty grim, don't they?" she began, drawing in the attention from the crowd of various races. "Hardly an army, we can only fight so much until we are finished. But . . . you all went through so much to organize yourselves as independents, to become the enemies of Stormwind, to align yourselves as neutral bystanders who do not agree on solely warring and killing. That is an amazing start, if not one of the hardest steps toward change. Together united, we can prove that our only way towards peace is to throw aside thoughts of resolving problems through force. This was the philosophy of my father.

"My name is Lucrecia Miller, for those of you who don't know me. I've studied military strategy and political history since I was a child, and nothing ever intrigued me more than those who were able to use these studies to avoid the typical beat-down strategies that killed millions. Now is my chance to use my father's teachings to their fullest. Alone, we are just idealists, powerless to act upon our best interests. However, together, we are gods. We all want the same things; peace, harmony, order . . . and a hopeful future so that we may raise our children without teaching them magic or how to pick up a sword and slay their neighbors. And now, it's our chance to prove to all the others, to prove to them that we can achieve this. We shall negotiate until we find a way, without war. We shall begin our war to end all wars. And when push comes to shove, we shall slay one thing, and only one thing: evil. Those who want to take away our happiness, those who struggle for war and personal gain, those who lust for destruction, death, and doom shall all meet our blades! "

Several whoops and cheers broke the silence of the audience, yet there was still much to be heard. Merely whetted, their appetite for hope only intensified. Absorbed by her words, all listened and watched the tactician like starving crocolisks. The woman in royal purple robes opened her tome, searching for a passage within the text as she fingered through it. She turned her collective gaze upon her audience, smiling intently.

"We will only have a shot at this if we use our honesty, cunning, and determination. Firstly, it is our duty to unite the lands of Azeroth against the impending doom that awaits us. Easier said than done, though. With the wars and hostility, we'll need to start small. There are numerous neutral factions, like ourselves, that may be willing to lend some support or even join us. But before we can even attempt to seek out allies, we need to give ourselves an title, something to be known as."

Mutters and whispers broke out amidst the crowd of rebels. It seemed Lucrecia triggered motivation into the hearts of the few hundreds of people. She looked about, amused at her handiwork, and then settled her eyes on Jedo.

"Why don't you go ahead and give us an idea, Jedo?" she suggested, focusing the bulk of the rebels to the boy.

"Me? I don't know . . ."

"Yeah, what about 'Revenge of the Blue Knights'?" Troi offered from behind. This caused a ruckus from all around, each muttering and shouting their own personal preferences for their new title. Such a commotion confounded Jedo, for their little brigade was intended to be merely temporary . . . or so he thought.

"No way!" retorted Gunther. "That name sucks!"

"Personally, I'd go with 'Hunters of Destiny'," Laya broke in, sounding rather passionate.

"I know, how 'bout the 'Brutal Brothers'?" mentioned an excited Kolark.

Jedo glanced around, amazed at how enthusiastic everyone had gotten over this. He saw Jaina, Thrall, and Pala smiling, talking silently amongst themselves. He noticed, for the first time, Lucrecia forming a partial smile. And then he found Scarlet's eyes, piercing his own. She smiled at him thoughtfully, tenderly. Or maybe that's the way he wanted her to view him. Immediately, he vanquished any thoughts and felt a wave of guilt in even thinking that way.

"Oh, be quiet," Katreda reprimanded, "all of you. It's been decided. Jedo will give us a name, and we're all going to like it! Go ahead, Jedo, no pressure."

Jedo turned to Pala, giving her a pleading look. She merely grinned at him and nodded encouragingly. Feeling defeated, Jedo sighed and paused for a moment, a wandering thought giving him the answer to Lucrecia's offer. "Meredia's League," he whispered, almost involuntarily. The crowd had to strain to hear it, growing even more baffled when he repeated it. "Meredia's League." This time it was with more prominence. Though it meant absolutely nothing to the onlookers, to Jedo it had a great significance. As a child, his cousin, Annie, would tell him a bedtime story passed on by Xadek himself, a tale of a boy whose dying mother passed through from another realm in order to save his life. From there, he was adopted and grew up to be the world's most mysterious hero, one of those classic, cliche types. The children's tale was called "Meredia's Legacy," and it was what inspired him to become a hero, a paladin. For the next few dragging seconds, for whatever the reason, Lucrecia and her fellow Gaean people remained silent, their eye brows furrowing with awe and shock. Even Scarlet appeared surprised, a sad look delicately etched on her face for just a split second. The tactician was the first to speak afterward.

"Meredia's League, a . . . strange name to pick, yet, it sounds somehow mystic. We are now Meredia's League. And to make it official, we shall also rename this spectacle of an island the land of Meredia, in honor of our resolve. All hail Meredia!" Everyone chimed in after, yelling a cheering before the princess, the tactician, and Jedo. The Gaeans seemed loudest of them all.

"Listen up, everyone," Lucrecia voiced in, raising her free arm for silence. "We still have much hard work to do if we want to make this happen. We need dependable allies, we need a reputation, and we need a fighting force. There's no other way around this. With our inner circle, that is, our most experienced and battle-worn leaders, we shall work out our next moves toward diplomacy. And despite the sizeable force we have amassed right here, I am willing to bet we will not have the full cooperation of the rest of society. It may just be us in the end, but even then, we will need funds, proper shelter, rations, and equipment. Likewise, we will need to organize ourselves into teams with functions. I'm talking about specialized forces, like soldiers, spies, ambassadors, recruiters, crafters and the like. Under one banner, we will become a force to be reckoned!" Again, there was a blast of applaud and cheering. Lucrecia closed her eyes, a pleased look on her placid face. "And now, we have someone vital to introduce. A soldier from the Palatinean ranks, and a good friend as well, shall say a few interesting words." The young woman behind Lucrecia who had waited patiently finally stepped forward. She had her battlemage gear still on, a couple of scruffs and tears on them. Yet, she seemed full of energy and awareness. Even with her medium-cut black hair, her beautiful blue eyes, and her shimmering platinum jewelry, something about her seemed unvariably tough.

"Meredia's League," she began, "my name is Rita, I come with both great and grave news. First the bad. Torn apart from my main regime with Princess Scarlet, my forces and I have been scoured down by the filthy Lodis army that followed us through the portal. I am to report, regrettably, that I am the only survivor, and that at least four other orders of Lodis remain in high pursuit. However, there is a light to shed upon us. As I probed through several cities, questioning vaguely about your whereabouts, I heard a peculiar conversation at Stormwind. Apparently, it had to do with the missing king, Varian Wrynn, and his whereabouts. My skills as a Dragon Master allowed me to easily detect that these denizens of that human city were, in fact, dragons under magical guises. It seems a superior black dragon by the name of 'Onyxia' has hold of the king and is being held at the infamous spire at Blackrock Mountain where her other kin reside. I am lucky to have lived to give you this tip, for one of your objectives, I've heard, is to gain the allegiance of Stormwind by rescuing Wrynn. Well, now is the time. I hear tell Onyxia and her Blackrock brethren are having problems due to nearby demonic attacks. After what they've done, I'd hold no remorse in combating them. I say we scorch ourselves some scaly dragon ass! What do you say, fellow Meredians? A fitting start to our campaign of justice!" This time, the League roared their approval, the orcs showing the most fervor. There was now no stopping the zealous, empowered group of outcasts. Amidst the gathering crowd, Jedo managed to grab hold of Scarlet and lead her off to the side. Standing close so she could hear him, he quickly questioned her.

"That name, Meredia, seemed special to me at that moment, and so I used it, without even a thought. It came from an inspirational tale my father made up when I was a child. But your people seemed very surprised when I mentioned it." The eyes Jedo stared at seemed filled with an even mix of confusion, sorrow, and hesitation.

"You want to know why, right?" she said, not expecting any answer. "Coincidence or not, this is the story. Meredia was a beloved woman and fighter in the Palatinean Revolution. She died some years later on some other plane with her child after escaping from a Lodis ambush. In fear of losing her child, she hoped to save him by using the last of her magic energy to traverse another world. She was not any ordinary mage, for she was said to have inherited some nascent arcane abilities that very few people were born with. Regardless, our tales say that the once-upbeat, effervescent woman who helped free Palatinus could not have survived the attack, but her son . . ."

Jedo turned around, turning to the skies above yet again. It was no coincidence. And it certainly was no children's story made up by Xadek or anybody else. The truth remained; it made sense that way, why he never knew Minerva, Xadek's deceased lover. Why his memories were boggled before age five. The knowing his father always held throughout his life, an expectance that was simply too suspicious. He didn't even look like any of his relatives.

"Jedo?" Scarlet asked worriedly.

"So . . . Meredia left behind a boy on another world. Maybe . . . Azeroth, perhaps?" When Scarlet remained silent, a knowing look in her eyes, Jedo became suddenly aware. "You knew, didn't you? I don't believe this. It should've hit me sooner that something was wrong when you reacted oddly at the mention of 'General Xadek Saldean'. So he tells everyone but me, is that right?"

"Don't be mad," she pleaded with him. "Xadek . . . your father, he meant the best for you. It wouldn't have been a good idea for you to know about this any earlier. Besides, I had just recently found out, right before I met you. You are a Gaean, Jedo. It was because of Meredia's plight that we came to follow her path in the first place, so that we may elude Lodis' wrath. This is what that old mer woman saw, whether through prophecy or otherwise. Just as it is ours, Jedo, this is your fate. Please try to understand."

"So, what now? Am I supposed to just accept everything? Is there anything at all I can control in my life . . . ? Is my fate simply to follow blindly some vague path?! I . . ."

The moment he paused, his face was beaming and his eyes had begun to glow a red, destructive hue. No one but Scarlet noticed any of this, much to her surprise, and when Jedo could not say any more, he doubled over much in the same way a bomb would defuse. The princess managed to bend down and catch him, just as the strange wave of panic faded from the boy. He seemed okay after the fall, his breathing quite rapid and his gaze inattentive as though he had won some internal conflict. Without trying to attract unnecessary attention, she settled him to the ground carefully, looking for any signs of further abnormality. The one thing that caught her eye was his elaborate blade, the oddly beautiful thing smoldering with an otherworldly heat.

* * *

"Let us proceed to other business." Lucrecia had pulled the inner circle aside from the roaring crowd and immediately went to work with other side operations to be done. It wasn't peculiar of her, after all. The Gaeans knew all too well the passion that woman held for change and democracy, making her one of Palatinus' most dangerous people albeit essential. Many feared her ambition and bluntness in just about any situation, including her beliefs which dictated much of her tactics. However, the wise and the strong held no fear, but rather respect. Lucrecia was one of those rare few who, just like one's own weapon, was carefully crafted for one who could rightfully wield it. "I propose that we take advantage of what we are doing now and move in a synchronized fashion. If all goes well here in the south with Stormwind, why not try to rally their one-time ally, the elves of Quel'thalas?"

There were looks of dismay from both Jaina and Thrall, their faces objecting. Even Pala wore her own anxious mask. "That may not be too good an idea, Lucrecia," Jaina suggested. "Let's just forget about the fact that human-elf relations went really sour. The truth is those elves are very stoic beings, and although they may see our plight, I have my doubts they would assist in any way."

"Yes, I agree," Thrall chimed in. "Yet, not for the same reasons you hold, Jaina. For awhile, the blood elves have avoided contact with the Horde. As an ally, I was worried for their safety, and I sent for an envoy to deliver a message. Disturbingly, when I awakened from my coma, I heard news of our envoy's disappearance. He was apparently intercepted and slain, meaning something was very wrong in the woods of Eversong."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to take a look," the tactician insisted. "If what you say is true, Thrall, then perhaps they wouldn't reject our offer that easily after all."

"May I ask why you are so eager to unite us with the elves of the north?" Katreda questioned with suspicion. Lucrecia merely snickered.

"Asking too many unnecessary questions delays our work. Just trust me on this, that is, of course, if anyone utterly objects to my advice. In the meantime, I believe repairing the old Alliance is the first greatest step to a more unified league. Plus, with several strong footholds here on the Azeroth continent, unifying Kalimdor would be an easier task, wouldn't you all agree?"

"I think you've been isolated for too long in prison," Gunther remarked, a wide grin on his boyish features.

"Hey, just outta curiosity, where's Jedo and Her Majesty?" Chappy rasped.

"Right here," came the distant reply of Scarlet. She hurried over, slowing down gradually and wearing a weak smile. "Sorry, Jedo didn't feel too well. I left him to rest in one of the bunks at the housings. I guess the excitement was too much, considering what he has just been through."

"Does this mean we move on without him?" Troi asked solemnly. "I mean, isn't he a part of this 'inner circle'?"

"We've no other choice," Lucrecia stated. "Personally, I wanted him to be one of the ambassadors to go to Quel'thalas, but under these circumstances. I think it best not to strain Jedo and allow him his rest. At daybreak, our dispatch team will consist of three major groups. The first one shall prepare for an infiltration of Blackrock Spire. Rita, you have enough experience. You shall lead the party together with Thrall. Jaina, I will be needing you for something else, so you shall stick back here." The three nodded in unison, accepting it to be the best course of action. "The second group will consist of only a few personnel. They shall head off to Silvermoon to not only invite them for a hearing with us, the Meredian League, but to assure everything is stable in their lands. Troi, Gunther, Kamrik, you three will be our spokespersons. All others, prepare to assist in the full construction of Meredia Isle, in any ways you can."

"Wait a minute, what about the third group?" Kolark interjected.

"That group will be for Jaina, Katreda, and I to worry about," Lucrecia replied cryptically. "Let's just say I know of a faction that is sure to lend us a hand, so long as us three meet with them."

* * *

-Within the halls of Naxxramas, at the frozen wastes of Storm Peak, Northrend, where it fell . . .

Arthas had only entered the great necropolis and wandered within when he sensed the artifact he was after. Its power was quite tremendous. That explained just why Kel'thuzad did what he did. He suddenly wondered what became of the arch lich. The loyal Kel'thuzad kept watch over the continent of Lordaeron for him, constantly having to deal with the wear and tear from the humans, undead, and high elves. Still, it mattered little. Should he have been slain by basic means, Arthas could later pull his soul down to Azeroth as an ethereal being, a not-so-fitting fate, but good enough.

The Lich King had entered through a breached opening that led straight into the deathknight wing, the primary chamber that propagated the evil warriors through mental and magical straining. What memories, he thought. The times since acquiring Frostmourne had been the most memorable, like an instructor looking back on the days as a mere disciple. It was the true awakening for him. All the preparations were set when he woke from his frozen reverie. That is, until that man appeared. He was just the breakthrough he needed; after absorbing what he could from Vuelmont's mind, Arthas realized there was much more power to be had. Why limit himself to just Azeroth? If he was being led straight, he could have his plague infest other worlds. Azeroth would just be the first of many delightful conquests.

The former death knight walked nonchalantly through the corridors. The deathknight wing had been too devastated to harbor any undead minions that he could use. Most had been used against the battle with the Forsaken. There was a sudden loud moan, the sound of an enraged entity of the Scourge. Arthas sensed the unusual radiance of magic about the place and knew something was amiss. The psychic barrier he had helped him sense the wild carnage intensify, actually forcing him to unsheathe Frostmourne in a primal display of instincts long suppressed. The wall to his right burst open, shoving cold, dark stone to the other end of the corridor. Arthas didn't flinch. The creature that materialized before him was a flesh titan, one of the Scourge's greatest infantry units. Memories flowed of the moment he created the thing for the first time. Consisted of various body parts and empowered by countless pure souls, it was a weapon to truly be feared. It was markedly the first experimentation with engineering, in which metal parts and gizmos were inserted. This was the finished product. It had a more complete look to it than an abomination; in fact, it looked 'healthier' and deadlier. Its face was blank, devoid of any emotion as any undead should be. Barely any armor covered its rancid body. It didn't need it, after all. Much of what lay beneath the surface of the undead creature was tough flesh and metal. Few parts appeared mangled and useless when indeed they were incredible weapons. One opening on its body expelled plague and disease, while a broken-looking arm was actually an enormous cleaver.

Wails and cries sounded from the gaping hole the titan broke through, pleading souls in eternal torment that swarmed throughout the nexus. It was simply delicious, a decadent treat that he, unfortunately, couldn't indulge in at the moment. The flesh titan approached with deadly determination, but as formidable as it was, it was nothing against the Lich King. First, he tried asserting control through his use of his lich powers. As he guessed, his psychic link to this undead was instantly untethered; powerful arcane energies threatened to destroy his control over his own undead minions. It was a minor issue, anyway. The worst case scenario would be to dispatch his own subjects.

The titan's cleaver rose and fell very suddenly, but Frostmourne held on with much ease. Locked together, the runeblade swiftly shoved the massive cleaver aside. Almost instantly, a bolt of green death flew from Arthas' hand. Any ordinary spell of undeath would have no effect on the abomination, yet, the powers of the Lich King were absolute even against the non-living. The bolt splashed against that ravaged blade-wielding arm and began to decay it at an incredibly abnormal rate. Pale flesh became opaque, then grayish-black. Eventually, the arm withered at the site struck, the mighty weapon it wielded falling with a heavy thrum. That hardly hindered its bloodlust, though. Instead of charging its foe, the thing utterly unarmed, it began tossing great globes of lightning from some hidden contraption in its body. Arthas held Frostmourne in a fashion that would be able to deflect the energy globes, but then, the titan began using its magnetic pull, in which any target wearing metal plate would be drawn to it. Even as it pulled, the Lich King was physically unable to resist it. Deflecting became much more difficult. Inevitably, several globes struck home, the force of them thrusting at his chest. Together with the magnetic pull, it sent him toppling to the ground. Irritated, Arthas used great shadow energies to lift him instantaneously. By then, the pull had lulled him a mere ten feet away. A battered arm came down to crush through armor, flesh, and bone. However, effortlessly, the king of death cleanly cut it down. The creature didn't seem to care. From its head flew chains of radical lightning that zapped everything in close proximity. With a weak impact, it did absolutely nothing to its foe. Arthas then unleashed his own magic field, one of pure destruction. It spread from his body onward and rotted anything in its path, much in the same manner as his green bolt. A strangled moan came from the titan as it blackened and crusted over.

Smiling, Arthas relished in the innumerable souls that fled the being upon its death. He basked in the emotion, the cries, the pain. And then, he took them into Frostmourne, knowing that more pressing matters were at hand.

The halls stretched on, with many of his minions running amok, untamed and masterless. All were slain in the name of the mighty Lich King. It was like some boring training grounds, like the ones from Lordaeron when he trained to become a paladin. It nettled him so. He passed the teleportation zone, which was obviously out of order; Naxxramas now lay impacted in a crater in the middle of Storm Peak. He followed the path that would lead to Kel'thuzad's quarters, precisely where the emanations were coming from. It felt stronger toward the abomination wing, where that flesh titan was probably created. There must have been another breaching somewhere that routed to the higher floors.

Arthas followed that delectable magic scent, like an insect flying towards some bright light. He let out a devilish smile when he noticed the huge hole in the wall above a spiraling stairwell. At the foot of the steps were countless abomination parts strewn about. Apparently, there were also wars between the wayward and his servants. He ascended, passing through the hole gingerly in a mocking way. That relic would soon be his.

Until he realized where he was. It was Sapphiron's lair, and apparently, it did not partake in the battle at the Plaguelands. It towered over him menacingly, holding no psychic link with its former master. It spewed out a body, the mass utterly destroyed. It shattered upon hitting the ground, for the breath of the frost wyrm was among the strongest. Arthas' newfound resistance to frost could keep him safe, but too much and he would be frozen solid. Although it would not kill him, it wouldn't bold well to remain frozen in a block of ice, for his many plans could not afford such a waste of time. Aware of the apparent danger, Arthas began to move. Immediately, Sapphiron roared its disapproval and began to locomote. Its first breath attack left one part of the room dry and foggy with intense cold. Small stalagmites formed seconds after. The Lich King kept himself in motion. A bony tail suddenly whipped before him. He stopped short just in time, but was hit hard by the frozen claws of the undead dragon. Arthas flew several dozen feet back, slamming against the ground three times. He rose as though he had intended the tumbling, looking more determined. He sifted through his thoughts, using his knowledge about frost wyrms to find some quick means to defeat it and get on with his search. Unfortunately, there was not much left to decay from the wyrm, nothing but shaggy flesh strips and ice-covered bone. His death spells would do little, if anything at all, which would be a waste of time and energy.

Sapphiron had him pinned where it wanted him and then began to breathe its icy air onto him. Arthas felt his joints grind, unable to withstand the intensity of the overwhelming dry frost. It took all his will, that of two beings, to limply roll to the left and away from the blasts. Armor froze onto skin. Limbs hardly moved. It took too many seconds to get up, and the dragon was moving its neck to spread more cold onto the Lich King. Focusing immensely, Arthas summoned forth whatever plagued creatures lay dead and in one relative piece. More ice crystalized on his right side, making it impossible to move now. However, in came several disfigured abominations, the few intact parts rising to do his bidding. Although an undead minion could not be resurrected through necromancy a second time, the abominations were made of several dead beings. As a result, certain parts were brought back. Enigmas as they were, they shambled, crawled, and slithered to the king's rescue. It was nothing more than a split-second distraction as they too became naught more than grotesque ice statues. It began to look grim for Arthas.

The room suddenly began to rumble and soon enough, the wyrm's chamber became writhe with fully and partially completed abominations. Being right next to the wing where they produced these mindless monsters, his call reached a good quantity of experiments yet to be risen in undeath. They had in their grasps any kind of weapon they could muster. Some had hooked chains, others had axes, even huge chunks of stone from the walls that had crumbled. In a matter of seconds, the myriad group of monsters had taken off dried flesh and a few bones. Sapphiron was forced to divert his attention at last.

The half-frozen Lich King cast a quick spell, one of strong Northrend winds that whipped and tore at his target. It wouldn't be the quickest solution, but the spell was carving off some of the hardened ice. Already, three of the abominations fell, getting their engorged innards spilled by the raking of wicked claws. Once his leg was free, he bolted. He climbed up the massive wyrm's tail and ran for the thorax of its body. He lifted Frostmourne, Sapphiron still oblivious, and with stiff arms cut down at the incredible vertebrae. It dug in deep, catching the attention of the mighty dragon. However, here he would deliver the death blow. He began to dispel the arcane and shadow magic diffused in the creature's spine. It was a difficult task to do, considering how much magic is taken to resurrect the thing in the first place. Runes appeared all around the room, surrounding the stunned Sapphiron. At that point, the frost wyrm could not even slash him off since one of its arms had fallen against the dwindling undead below. Blue flames began to slowly grow on each bone and each socket. The dragon howled its disdain, squirming as unlife seeped from its very being. Remnants of its soul fizzled away, and suddenly, it wasn't so cold in the room anymore.

The body thudded on the ground loudly, bones falling apart all over. Arthas, on the other hand, rode the bones to the ground and landed evenly. It was time to claim his prize.


	19. Dragon Fangs

-Chapter 19-

-Outskirts of Silvermoon City, at the bulwarks surrounding Fairbreeze Village . . .

"Where is she?" It was the same question Halduron had been asking since arriving at Fairbreeze and dispatching the fastest, nimblest runner he could find to Silvermoon. He now stood as the primary lookout while the others finished setting up the ballistics and bulwarks. However, the matter stood in vain, for the Scourge have been delaying for quite some time, not to mention the dispatched runner had been missing for almost half a day. The trek to Silvermoon was only a few hours where he stood, well at least for a decent runner. His instincts told him something horrible had happened at the capital.

"Sir Brightwing, our defenses are completely set." At the scout's words, Halduron merely stared off into the distance, contemplating. "What shall we do now, sir?"

"We need to stand as the first line of defense for Silvermoon. We remain here. The orders will not change." As the scout saluted and departed, the ranger felt his uncertainties rise. "What happened, Lor'themar?" he whispered to himself.

"Bring him over here, hurry!" came a cry from the village entrance. Then there were a few more cries. "My spells aren't doing anything! Where are the paladins and priests? Bring them here at once!" Halduron turned toward the commotion and started for the crowd of rabbling soldiers. A battered blood elf hung onto the arms of two men, his wounds mortal. The general knew he could not live much longer, that not even the Light could do a thing. Yet, something in the elf's eyes as they caught his told of a determined will. Halduron understood and hurried over to him. He knelt down and gave his wounds another look, then peered up grimly at the dying man.

"You came from the east, did you not? Please tell me the people of Suncrown made it to Silvermoon as planned!" A wave of anxiety hit the general when the elf, on a tightrope between life and death, grimaced at his words.

"It is . . . unknown," he replied with much effort. At this point, the half-dead survivor fell to his bloodied knees. "The townspeople . . . were ordered to flee when . . . several necromancers raised the trolls . . . at the ruins. Was an ambush. Stormblade led them away. Several men . . . and I . . . remained to back up the others as they . . . fled. So much death. Only I . . . I don't know how I made it here . . . please . . . please, save Silvermoon! Trolls . . . to the east . . . Scourge . . . S-c-our-ge . . ."

The elf died into Halduron's own arms. The lifeless, cooling corpse was yet another casualty of this endless war. Seeing this young soldier, a victim of a draft, die the way he did renewed his resolve. As he laid him down onto the grassy land, he noticed the numerous infections in his many tears and lacerations. The plague is what prevented his ravaged body from healing any further. He placed an incinerator torch down beside his body and watched as the flames slowly consumed the elf away. The boy had been hit hard with the plague for sure. Better to go back to the earth than to the foul hands of undeath.

And just as he thought that, he viewed the first signs of Scourge movement. They marched up from the Ghostlands and revealed their grisly, shadowy forms. These were all disease-ridden ground units collected into one legion for the sole purpose of wrecking chaos throughout their mindless march to the capital. However, he soon caught sight of undead to the east. Trolls and murlocs and anything else that could be raised shambled across rivers and bridges alike, clawing their way north. Even the elven dead from Stormblade's brigade were amongst them. By then, all of Halduron's men had manned their stations and called out the enemies' positions. And with no apparent sign of Silvermoon getting any word of this, it was obvious he would not have any reinforcements to aid him. When a scout at the western bulwarks warned of Scourge invaders entering from the shores, Halduron knew Silvermoon would not hold on. If they could even survive such an attack, the amount of death that would result would inevitably lead to the demise of the blood elves regardless. He watched helplessly as hundreds of haunted gargoyles and undead drakes reached the shores, leaving a wake of chilling frost. Zombified thralls rode these monstrosities onto land, tainting the very beauty of Quel'thalas. And here he was, ranger-general though he be, with nothing more than a contingent of defenders. He took a deep breath, perhaps his last one actually, and braced himself for the worst.

* * *

- At the royal courts of Stormwind . . .

Frohm stalked into his chambers and flipped over the first gaudy furniture in his way, never before feeling so rancorous. He threw a table and its contents against a wall. He took an expensive vase and shattered it onto the marble floors. It wasn't until he punched and elbowed the massive walls with relative ease that he realized he had lost his composure. Scales on his hands and spikes on his knees and elbows began to reappear, suddenly calming the beast just so slightly. Should one of the maids see him like this, his cover would ultimately be ruined. Incidentally, he had grown extraordinarily sick of covering up his secret. He was on the verge of just transforming full-blown and killing everything in the castle, in the town. But no, he had his plans which he needed to adhere to. His father would never allow him to do such a thing. Just the thought of his dearest father brought a soothing sensation to him, despite his cold demeanor.

"_This is how you handle months, years of planning?_" he would say. "_To allow yourself to be stung by these pitiful insects, these humans? Do not disgrace your heritage, Nefarian!_"

He wore a smile just thinking about it. Bringing vengeance upon the mortals of Azeroth is just the beginning. After the takeover Vuelmont had been planning bears its wondrous fruits, he would use the situation to prepare his fellow denizens at Blackrock Spire for their own invasion. It was long past time the black dragonflight took charge of this world and the worms crawling within it, as they rightfully should have so many years ago. But he needed to obey his father's words first. And that meant playing by all the rules, for now. He'd go on with this little facade a bit longer.

"Is all well, sire?" came a withered voice from outside his door. Wearing a snobby, regal look, he strode over, a totally new man, and opened the door. There stood one of the more loathed members of the council, the old Markus Runesmith. The old duff always bore a look of condescension, his chin held high and his eye brows lifted into wrinkled archs. This time, though, he also had a look of suspicion more than worry at his violent outbursts.

"My apologies for all the . . . ruckus. A table leg came loose and dumped all its contents onto the floor. Not to worry, nothing that cannot be replaced."

"Hmm, yes," he murmured, glancing vaguely at what he could inside. Then, the matter had vanished as he changed the subject right after. "Well, I am sure it is just bad luck that has spread from the recent injuries our campaign has received. You are aware, I'm sure, that our efforts in Hillsbrad against the Horde have not gone so well. Since their recent hostilities, it is crucial to gain more resource nodes in the event that all-out-war breaks out. Come, let us take a walk."

Fuming on the inside, Frohm nodded and left his chambers to the hall outside. Guards stood near the door, the personal kind that he fabricated. Funny, how little these humans questioned what they thought they knew so well. He walked alongside the sleazy politician, pondering what the man wanted. Something to better his status, no doubt. He could not wait to bid them farewell with dragon's breath when that glorious day would come.

"You see, Commander, our popularity is diminishing greatly with the commoners and nobles. With the recent aggressions from the Horde, and our . . . shortcoming, with the battles on the Lordaeron continent, I cannot help but wonder if the council seats will remain the same for long."

Frohm just nodded occasionally as they strode down the showy hallway depicting portraits of "heroes" of old and junk they called armor. It never ceased to amaze him how far humanity has come with these still-primitive things. Have they ever heard of goblin technology? And why waste their time to design such expensive carpeting, sculptures, and knickknacks? In a world like this, it was all meant to burn into ashes anyway. He finally looked at the babbling fool next to him, hardly taking in anything he said. People like him made Frohm want to clench his fists with fire sorceries, inflict pain unto others, tempted him to just rip the little rich pigs apart. But it was all for the cause.

"Ah, Markus," he interrupted casually. "There is an even more pressing matter at hand. You wouldn't believe it."

"What might that be?" he replied, curiosity written all over his face.

"Remember the 'guests' we had the day of the Horde invasion? They've found out what's happened to Wrynn. Yes, the 'late' king yet lives." Frohm's tone hardened, sounding as sharp as a blade.

". . ."

"Well, have you nothing to say about this?"

"The king . . . still lives?"

"Yes," he spat, stopping and turning to him. "My sources tell me that daring band of fools is trying to amass into some rogue organization. They want to rescue the King, who was simply snatched by the black dragons, so that Stormwind can rightfully be ruled . His captors' motives and whereabouts are still unknown, but those rebels are bound to find him."

"That's preposterous! You're not serious, are you?" Frohm remained silent, merely giving him a glare. "W-well, isn't that good news!"

"Don't act so patriotic."

"Pardon?"

"Markus, you and I know very well what the . . . _problem_ is. Young Anduin was easy to manipulate until right before his untimely death. We exist solely because the late young king was inexperienced and needed a cabinet of advisors. What will happen when Varian steps in? What will become of the council . . . of you?"

"What do you suppose we should do?" replied Markus, treachery clearly perceptible in his ruthless eyes.

"Why, this is where the council will get creative. I'm leaving this up to my faithful advisors." The two heard footfalls coming from down the hall, signaling them at silence. Two guards came forth, a night elf woman between them, and bowed. She immediately saluted with a fist to her chest, a Sentinel salutation, just as one of the guards spoke.

"Commander, this messenger traveled a great distance to speak with you personally. She claims it to be an emergency under article ten of the Alliance constitution." The two guards left as soon as they were dismissed, leaving the night elf to do the talking.

"Greetings, Commander Frohm," she started, her accented voice low despite the urgency. "My name is Toira. I've been sent from our lands in Kalimdor by the Shadowleaf Sentinels led by Shandris. While we would normally never ask for any assistance from outsiders, it has been made imperative that the Alliance send some assistance to the night elves."

"A request from the general? Not by High Priestess Tyrande?" Frohm's mildly amused expression won him the elf's scorn. "On what grounds?"

"Commander," she replied rather irately, "this is a very dire situation! The High Priestess has . . . gone missing in the field of battle. Demons alongside undead monstrosities are scattering from an unspecified point in Felwood. And as though we've naught else to worry about, there's been an insurgency going about at Darnassus. General Shandris is currently in a vise-grip between demons and mindless traitors. With Fandral's status unknown and only a meager force to act upon with, she alone is combating the chaos. If we are truly in an 'alliance', now is the time to assist your allies!"

Frohm grit his teeth, controlling the rage within him once more. There would be no way to avoid this one. With what this night elf babbled, it appeared Vuelmont had begun the invasion after all. Prematurely, in fact. This was not part of the bargain! And now, he would have to give up a large chunk of his fighting force to those damned elves, the same chunk of soldiers he planned to use for his experiment. It could not be allowed. It _would not_ be allowed. Deal or no deal, he was forced to take action on his own. He need only rely on his impulse now, something he did very well.

"Well, am I going to get a reply?" the night elf questioned. "You are the commander of the Alliance, are you not? My people cannot afford for me to wait here idly!" The false commander gave away a glint in his eyes, a magic command to his enchanted guards to shut all doors and bar the way. The councilman looked about uneasily before the elf did, much more accustomed to the perfidies of politicians.

"Oh, I won't keep you waiting any longer, wretched elf," he answered acidly, his features morphing. And they continued to change until he was a splitting image of a black dragon. No, he was a black dragon, only partially transformed. The elf, completely caught unaware, let out a gasp as she backed away. Rather than fleeing, she froze when she saw the dragon open its incredible maul, her eyes widening as they beheld nothing but razor blades. And then, those eyes saw no more. There was a swift crunching sound as the messenger was suddenly digested, and the commander was back to how he was. He casually wiped his bloody mouth with a handkerchief before setting his sights back on the appalled old wretch beside him. A look of panic delighted him greatly. A witness to his dirty secret, it looked pretty certain that he would have to be the creative one now.

"Y-y-you're a . . ."

"What? A dragon?" Nefarian asked snidely. "Why, yes! How astute of you to notice! I am, indeed, a dragon, oh scholarly Runesmith. Incidentally, I am also the son of the great Deathwing, the Destroyer, the Blood's Shadow, whatever you mortals wish to call him. And soon, the truest scourge of your kind!"

"Please, spare me!" groveled Markus readily as Nefarian slowly stalked toward him. "I can be of great value to you alive! I know plenty . . . of . . . secrets, yes! Political! It can help whatever schemes you have . . . t-tenfold!"

"I don't need your worthless 'secrets'! However, you are a politician. And my intuition says not to entrust you with _my _petty little secrets."

* * *

Everyone on the floating continent of Meredia was solemn. It was the crack of dawn. Their plans had undergone its final revisions, so the only thing left was to act. Without much conversing, each member marched to their corresponding platoon, ready to carry out what was perhaps the most crucial operation. Two groups were formed for the political ensemble, but only one sole group would be the fighting force behind the rescue of the true king of Stormwind. Against the orange sunrise, Rita, Lucrecia, and Troi stood before their army, enamored by the determination of the once-warring humans and orcs. Today, they would fight for more than just the Meredian League; they would kill and defend in the name of life, and in the name of freedom.

On the outskirts of the lined-up warriors, Jedo had abandoned his sleeping quarters to take in the view. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the tactician with the others. Just what were they planning? Apparently, it was too important for them to include him into it. He assumed they saw him unfit for this operation since the events that took place earlier.

"Jedo?" The voice was none other than Chappy's. "How you feeling? The Princess said you were a bit under the weather. And from the looks of it, you sure could use some more rest!"

Ignoring the goblin's comments, Jedo shook his head disapprovingly. "What are they doing?! Are they leaving off to Blackrock Spire already . . . without me?"

"Don't take it so rough, buddy," Chappy said in a vain attempt to calm him down. "They saw you all worn out and all and decided to give you the next few days . . . off."

"What?! They can't do that! I have my own mission to complete!"

"You can't mean revenge!" Chappy chirped, knowing it was the case.

More enraged than usual, Jedo sprinted off, using the nearby trees for cover. He got near the band of soldiers, close enough to hear Rita speaking. The more he heard, the more he felt excluded.

"We fight today for many reasons, my comrades. This battle will ensure our freedom for days to come. With King Varian Wrynn freed, it not only means the salvation of humanity, but also the trust and friendship of many different races. Orcs, dwarves, trolls, tauren, united, we shall take down evil at its root, starting with each minuscule leaf, if need be. We will create for ourselves a world where everybody is a neighbor and strife has ceased to exist. Remember always what we fight for, and there should never be any doubt in your hearts! For the Meredian League!!" The fiery battlemage raised her twinblades to the air and let out a warcry that was joined by the rest of the brigade under her leadership. Beside her, a battle-ready Thrall cheered, further encouraging his orcish brethren.

"Don't feel bad, Jedo," came yet another voice behind him. He turned to see the little goblin joined by Troi and his two companions. "There'll be plenty of other skirmishes and battles to look forward to. We just don't want you to, you know, get all crazy and stuff." Troi was rewarded with a swift elbow to the gut by Gunther, who tried to recompose himself.

"What Troi means to say is you still have some recovering to do, emotionally, physically, and whatnot."

"You mean they're afraid," Jedo replied heavily. "Afraid of what me and my blade are capable of . . . right?" The three men and the goblin gave him apologetic looks before Gunther interrupted yet again.

"Look, we gotta go, now. Troi, Kamrik, and I are going to Silvermoon to talk diplomatics."

"You mean diplomacy," corrected Kamrik.

"You know what I mean! Man, I can't stand that stuff! Why couldn't I go to Blackrock instead? This bites!"

The trio started toward their own personal zeppelin, still mouthing off to one another, while Jedo was left with his friend. He sighed inwardly and took one last look at the army that was now assembling for take-off.

"Dontcha worry, Jedo," Chappy rasped, his grin wide like always, "this could be good for you! You can practice with that thing and become the greatest war hero ever! Much better than being just a regular paladin. Now's your chance!" He watched the goblin waddle off to the engineer's hut, and then shifted to the fighters again.

"Yes, now's my chance."

* * *

"Whoa!" shouted Kolark when he saw the colossal zeppelin rise up to the floating island. It was the size of three zeppelin easy, a massive war airship. He had to say, the goblins surely outdone themselves this time, but he also wondered what motivated them to create such a complex _and pricey_ thing. Rita and Thrall strode over to the awed tauren, both their arms crossed.

"A real beaut, isn't she?" Thrall said in amusement.

"How did those little buggers get the funds to make that?" Kolark asked as he turned to them.

"It was more like an agreement," responded Rita. "Diplomacy really does have its benefits after all. That Lucrecia never ceases to amuse me! I would more rather threaten the living hell out of them!"

"Negotiation is always a peaceful and rewarding route to a solution, my lady," added Thrall. "Even for greedy little goblins."

"Hm, maybe so, Warchief, but my blades are the only things that speak truest in times of war. There's no point in "negotiating" with those whose way of life depend on slaughtering and kidnaping anyway." Rita's words bit hard, but she had a good point. After all, the creatures they would eventually combat were beyond using mere words for a solution. They held the only human king left hostage for whatever the exact reason.

"Let's get everyone onboard, Warchief. We've some dragons to slay!"

In flew four other zeppelins, not nearly as large or armed as the colossal one, but still prepared for combat. All of the alined battlers watched the glorious sight before them, eager to get on and blast some scaly hides. Kolark looked on, knowing what exactly they were for; with dragons swarming the infernal war zone that was the Burning Steppes, aerial combat was inevitable. He sifted through his travel pack and pulled out a cactus apple, munching uneasily.

"You are coming as well, aren't you tauren?" Rita asked tauntingly.

"Well, you see . . ."

"Of course he is!" shouted Chappy from the hut of explosions and accidents that was the engineer's hut. "As Meredia's best marksman, you are hereby obligated to test out my new, and patented, Nitro Ray! Though still a prototype, it will blast a thin beam of freezing nitrogen and ice magic enchantments. They should wreck havoc onto the burning battlefield, should the need arise. I wish you all luck! The ray has only malfunctioned twice, and it claimed the lives of just ten people during its programming! Oh, and did I mention it comes with a remote control?!"

"I've got a really bad feeling about this," Kolark muttered as he marched onto the large vessel.

Meanwhile, the airships were being loaded. Lucrecia stood earnestly by, watching the men, no, the _Meredians_ enter with enthusiasm and zeal. It reminded her of a particular operation back in Palatinus. She opened her giant text, a testament to her studies here on Azeroth, and skimmed to a portion titled "The Searing Gorge", the geographical location of Blackrock Spire. However, a gentle voice pulled her attention off of the study.

"Madam Miller." It was Pala, and she sounded a bit concerned. Lucrecia turned to her and smiled.

"Yes, shaman? I trust everything is okay."

"No. I've known for some time that there's been some elemental disturbance in the Blackrock area. My suspicions have been confirmed. Have you ever heard of Ragnaros?"

"Hmm, in lore, yes, but nothing much else," she replied after scanning her book.

"This deity of fire presses its attacks there for reasons still unknown. Aside from dragons, orcs, and demons, there will be elementals. If they're not careful, they could get themselves involved in a full-scale war with four flanks. There would be no escaping the battlefield alive."

"No worries," Lucrecia assured. "This will not be a war. We get in, find the king, and get out. It won't be easy, I'm not saying that, but I have my full trust in Rita and Thrall's leadership. Don't you, Pala?"

"Let us hope our men don't become instant targets, Madam. These are unpredictable times. It may prove to be too much, even for our heroes."

There was no other response to be said. Lucrecia soaked in what Pala said and gave the airships a reminiscent stare. Indeed, it looked familiar, like eight years ago. Only, this time, she was certain victory was at hand. After all, failure wasn't an option.

"Yes, failure," she whispered as she closed her eyes gently. "Not this time."

* * *

The zeppelin cabin filled quickly, two figures entering to join two others. Among the entering two, Thrall was the one to speak first.

"Lok Tar," he greeted the two standing around the map table. "Menara, didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were staying with Eitrigg back at Orgrimmar, no?"

"Hello, Thrall," she smiled, her bright red hair a deep magenta in the dim room, nothing but a lantern lighting up the humongous map that covered the entire surface of the table. "I see you've got your own personal guard, now. And a feisty-looking one at that. Very impressive, you bachelor!"

"Haha, still lively as always, Ms. Voidrender. This here is Lieutenant Rita, one of the higher commanding officers of the Palatinean Army. She is here to help lead us to victory."

"Ah, a Meredian all the same, then," Menara replied. She then pointed to the orc woman to her side and nodded. "This is Greshka, an inside agent from the Blackrock Clan. She will be the one detailing us on where to go once inside the fortress."

"Hm, a spy," Rita said delightedly. "This is a very fortunate turn of events for us."

"A former member of the Dark Horde, eh?" Thrall stated, eyeing the old orc. She was old enough to possibly be his grandmother, if the life expectancy of an orc actually permitted. "I know how difficult it must have been to endure allegiance to their ilk. I am grateful for your decision to help us, Greshka." The old orc gave a sturdy nod. That was something about orcs to admire; their unwavering endurance and strength despite age.

"It is an honor, Warchief. Here is the map of the interior, friends," she rasped. "Gather 'round, for we'll be at the spire sooner than you think. And when that time comes around, the dragonkin will be most eager to greet us with dragon's breath."


	20. Dragon Breath

-Chapter 20-

The passengers of the lead zeppelin unveiled a world of molten vapors and magma upon departing the map room. All around, there were uplifted crags and mountains and lava. The sky was a red painting, its canvas set afire. The only colors visible were earthy brown, charred black, and scorching red. Thrall squinted as he tried to take an overall view of his surroundings. A look down below from the railings gave view to a lake of smoldering, pulsating lava connected by a stream that gave birth to it. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, which came back completely soaked. It didn't take long for the heat to start building up around them all.

"What a sight, huh?" Kolark strode down from the goblin-designed cannon and gave a hearty smile. "Reminds me of one of my many travels!"

"So, you know the geography pretty well?" questioned Rita, her arms crossed as though the intense waves of heat of the Burning Steppes was but a mere breeze. Her jet black hair, though now covered in a keffiyeh for protection rather than in a cumbersome helm, wafted in that burning breeze.

"Heh, you'd imagine the place would be memorized after a three-hour-long zeppelin-chase through the valleys!" Kolark was rewarded with looks of bewilderment and curiosity. "What? It's _very_ tough being a world-wide weapons merchant!"

"I wonder how far we are from the spire?" Menara asked, annoyed by the harsh atmosphere. "Damn it, I knew I should've learned more useful ice support spells!"

"Do not fret, child," said Greshka, the old blackrock turncoat. "The Blackrock Clan has a rather clear-cut welcoming of guests. That's how you know you are nearing the spire."

As though Greshka's explanation were the cue, several shots sputtered from one of the turrets run by a Meredian below deck. Then the others. Kolark immediately saw their targets; a quick view revealed the glint of black scaly wings. The dragons have arrived. He ran to his post as the others drew their weapons and prepared to take cover. At the first shootings by the lead zeppelin, the other zeppelins followed suit. The turrets did very little against creatures of tough dragon armor. Their only bet would be to blast the underside of the dragons' wings, but at the speed those black demons flew, it was all but possible. Their numbers were on par with their own; five dragons against five ships. At first, the dragons began to toy with the passers-by, occasionally slashing the flying ships' hull or rear fins. Others just crashed against the airships to scare the meager inhabitants within. It was a mere joke to them. However, when the turrets proved to be somewhat of a nuisance, the first breath of fire was blown onto an unlucky zeppelin. Alternative energy sources were used by the goblins when designing the ships, particularly magic, to avoid combustibility. Unlucky yet, it burnt right through the rear lining. The girders that held the ship's structure together were visible almost instantly. The other dragons soared after their successful brother as they watched the zeppelin start to slowly burn to a crisp. An explosion came from behind the doomed ship, signaling that the engine had caught ablaze. There was not much else to do but watch in horror.

"We have to do something!" Rita shouted, her longsword at the ready. "Those beasts are going to pick us off one at a time!" Even as she spoke, the burning zeppelin was sinking slowly from the sky and into a lava pit. It sizzled right before exploding, leaving only an expanding black cloud behind.

"If I teleport from ship to ship, I can get a spell shot at their tails," Menara suggested. "I can grab their attention for a little while."

"Right, and I'll see what I can do to distract them," Rita added.

"Well, if you guys distract them long enough, I can get a nice hit at them with _this_ baby here!" Kolark shouted, patting the specially acclaimed Nitro Ray made by Chappy.

Without further delay, they split up. Menara blinked onto the nearest left ship, while Thrall took the warship's bow and Rita the stern. Without wasting time, Menara flung two shadowbolts simultaneously, one from each hand. One of the free-shots caught the outer rim of one dragon's wing, sending it spiraling in confusion. By the time it caught sight of her, she was gone again. She continued her games for awhile, earning her their ire. From the stern, Rita cast a potent ice elemental spell. In seconds, her body became encased with an icy shell. The frosty ice took shape and became thorns on the surface of her body. They continued to grow ever longer as the spell continued. One dragon eventually caught sight of the blue-hued spectacle and dove down to scorch it. That was when Kolark took his shot. The blast was a channeled beam of azure ice. It was so fine and concentrated, it amputated the dragon's right wing cleanly off. Its futile dive continued downward into smoldering pits below as it attempted vainly to stay aloft.

"Booyah!" cheered the tauren, raising a triumphant fist in the air. However, at the sight of one of their own falling, the black dragons regrouped at the rear, making a u-turn that would bring them to the four remaining airships' rears.

Thrall, meanwhile, channeled the elements at his disposal already. He used the lava river below them to shoot blasts of magma up at the speeding monsters. After several attempts, he noticed it at least slowed down one of the four remaining dragons, leaving it slacking behind. Rita, however, had other plans. As her spell completed, she forced all the ice spears throughout her body toward her arms. Like explosive launchers, she began shooting the spears in rapid succession. With uncannily wonderful aim, she marauded the dragons with the ice splinters. They pierced through tough scales and made ragged holes in dragon wings. Many of the shots, though, pinged off their skull armor and spikes. Still, it was getting to them. Instead of their full-out joint attack, the three advancing dragons split off in different directions.

"Rita, watch out!" Menara cried out as the straggler dragon surprise-attacked from behind its brethren. That's when Rita launched her last spear, one twice the size of the others. It struck right through the dragon's neck, impaling it against a nearby mountain. It squirmed there on the mountainside for a moment, and then became still.

As that was happening, one of the dragons hovered above one of the zeppelins and spit out globes of fire. The flames ate away at the ship like butter, forming several ragged holes. The ship's pilot, not taken by surprise like the last, veered toward Thrall's vessel for cover. That's when Thrall channeled his lightning chain spell. It zipped past and around the evasive ship and toward the pursuing dragon, which hung in midair at the shock of the elemental attack. The lightning continued and chain-zapped the second nearby dragon, holding them in place. However, it wouldn't last for too much longer.

"Now, Kolark! Do it!" he yelled through his teeth. "While I can still hold them down!"

The next ray blast sliced a clean gash in one dragon's belly, exposing its innards. It fell to the grounds below with a defeated screech. The ray didn't stop there. As Kolark lugged the ray upward, it also struck the other electrified creature. Contact with the powerful electrical current caused an explosion that actually set the dragon ablaze. Howling horribly, the dying creature spun directly toward one of the unscathed zeppelins like a homing missile, making its final plummet a deadly one. It hit the airship's flank with no difficulty, blasting right through and out the other end until it crashed against a giant crag, going out like a light. The crippled airship was beyond control, eventually going on a head-on collision with another crag slab.

Outnumbered three to one, the lone dragon apparently knew escape was inevitable. It lunged with the last bit of energy left in it, dodging turrets and magic spells alike. Its evasive game paid off, allowing it to get to the primary vessel's flank. Out of sheer rage, it chomped off the nozzle to Kolark's Nitro Ray and spun back around for another blast of dragon's breath. Projectiles were incinerated in its lethal attack, as well as many spells. The dragon's fiery attack was tearing through and towards the beast's target: the engine.

"To the engine!" shouted Thrall, meeting Rita at the stern. She was taking her shots at the creature that hovered just above the stern itself, her face showing nothing but pure frustration.

"Thrall, can you give me some kind of a lift?" she shouted through her anger as she pointed her longsword at the dragon just above her.

"Hang on," he advised. He summoned the hot winds of the steppes to rise up, and up she went. She went down on the revenge-seeking dragon's neck, her enormous sword aimed down below at her target. It dug deep inside, beneath scale armor and tough flesh and even bone. It screeched in pain, spattering flames in every direction, even as Rita held on for dear life. She withdrew her sword from its quivering neck, the blade bathed in dragon's blood, and hacked again at the wound with vicious fervor. One powerful twist and something within the writhing neck snapped. The dragon took a dive, just as Menara caught her in midair and blinked back onto safe grounds. Thrashing and screeching, the horrible creature seemed to disappear into the fumes from the lava below. With the silence that ensued, it seemed certain it met its demise. It was the end of the dragon assault, for the moment.

"Damn, we lost two ships," Rita muttered as she tried to catch her breath.

"They were stronger than I'd even imagined," Thrall said in wonderment.

"Well, we made it, that's what counts!" Menara spat. "We were lucky to have had another mage on board with us."

"I only wish I had more spells to help the soldiers on those two ships," Rita lamented.

"Hurry it up!" said the old orc woman from the cabin doors. "I do not mean to be so belligerent with my words, but if you haven't noticed, we have no other defense against another legion of dragons. We've veered off course. Get these ships due west!"

Thrall did as Greshka asked, and within half of an hour the spire peaked off the horizon. Whether it was luck or just misfortune, the spire was already locked in the middle of combat. From the banks of the lava stream beside the great spire emerged countless fire elementals of various kinds. Magma creatures strung together by arcane magnetic energies seemed to slide up toward the fortress' side where heavily armored orcs battered them apart to the best of their abilities. Near-liquid lava elementals with sharp magma talons took no heed in their own reckless offenses. As they slashed vehemently at their orcish foes, the green grunts relied on specially forged shields for protection. These orcs' swords would do hardly anything to those amorphous blobs of lava. But as they looked onward, they saw warlocks in the background shooting forth ice shards summoned from the depths of the nether. It was a sound strategy if only the elementals weren't never-ending. That's when Thrall saw an opening.

"If we hurry, we can land over by that pile of rubble where the wall has crumbled." He pointed to the location, a raised landscape connected to a mountain or volcano. The spire's damaged wall had been the site of a fierce battle, evidently, and as the wall crashed down on some unfortunate warriors, it also blocked access inside. The battle endured on the other side, which would serve as an excellent cover for their infiltration. Thrall nodded his approval. "Yes, get the pilot to park us on that elevation there, Rita. Menara, teleport over to the other ships and inform them of the location."

Just as he finished speaking, the zeppelin quivered, as though something heavy had been thrown onboard. He turned around and saw the last black dragon from before, latched on to the stern of the ship, its neck still dripping blood but still durable. It devoured the first few men that stood near the rails, spurting fire as it did so. The flames caught everywhere, causing panic among the soldiers. The dragon was half-dying from the grave wound given to it, but with its sporadic breath of fire, it was impossible to approach and attack. It would just hold there, hoping to burn down the vessel and take it with it. Rita was down below, and Menara was on another ship. He couldn't spare a single second. He used the powerful, super-heated winds to try to control the flames raining from the beast's maul, but its force was too great. He intensified them with a wave of his staff and the winds became a mini tornado that slowly wiped out the spreading embers on the ship. It would be futile, though, as the dragon continued to burn what it could, not to mention the engine was not too far from its position. Time was running out fast.

Then, a shadow seemed to zip past Thrall, wildly making its way toward the black-scaled doom-seeker. It found its mark, even despite the breath that smoldered everything in its path. The shadow grew around it, encasing it and removing it from the hull of the damaged zeppelin. Then, a golden beam came down on the stunned dying thing, and it was gone, literally. Ashes rained down upon the equally stunned onlookers. Thrall look behind him and saw Rita, her face serious.

"Very impressive, Lady Rita," Thrall commended, holding his thanks as he noticed her shake her head. Menara blinked back onboard, staring agape at the dragon's handiwork.

"What the hell did I miss?" she said, her long red hair wavering in the ash-filled winds.

"Then who-,"

They all looked about and froze when they saw the likely culprit. With his sword unsheathed, there stood Jedo, a devilish smile on his pale face.

* * *

The ships were landed and the repairs had gone underway. The Meridians immediately took their positions as assigned to them earlier. It was Rita's job as vice-captain of the squad, to facilitate this. Meanwhile, Menara was sent on yet another teleporting job. She was to do a quick scouting of the fallen zeppelin's remnants, making sure no one, if anyone at all, was left behind from the crash. Unfortunately, there were no survivors to rescue. And then there was Jedo. Thrall stood there with him, away from the rest of the others, wondering what he had in mind.

"Jedo, the others had wanted you to rest up. And, to be quite honest, I concurred with them. You need to keep up your energy." Jedo's face contorted with an expression of slight pompousness.

"Didn't you see before? I've got all the energy I need, thanks to my blade."

"Hmm, yes," Thrall said, putting a hand to his chin, "I've been eying that weapon of yours. It has some strange auras about it."

"Well, it's helped me since day one," Jedo added, sounding a bit desperate as though he was being reprimanded. "It is the reason I still live. And, it's helped me cope with my father's . . . misfortune. It's almost as though it understands me. It too, bears the weight of my burden, my fate." It was Thrall's face this time that was contorted.

"Jedo, we can talk more about that peculiar sword later. Right now, we have a dire operation to carry out. The longer we take, the more we risk a war with these inhabitants, which would be a clear disaster. There's no telling what will go down once inside that spire, so you must be careful."

"Right," Jedo agreed, nodding as he strode ahead. "I'll stick by you. I won't be any trouble, I promise you."

"Jedo." The young man turned around, his semi-long black hair wavering madly in the heated breeze. "Why did you come? Has this something to do with revenge?"

"Maybe, I don't know," he responded haphazardly.

"You should understand the kinds of things vengeance brings to those who seek it."

"What would an orc know about honor lost by a paladin or a knight?" he asked, his words not so much biting, but harsh nonetheless.

"In the end, child, humans and orcs are not a bit different," he said, marching ahead of him. "We rise to the call of combat, and fall to retribution. Vengeance was a key ingredient to the savagery my people fell victim to in the past."

Behind them, the soldiers on the offensive marched after the orc shaman, while a defense team remained behind should a skirmish reach their vessels. Menara was made in charge of that defense, while Rita and Greshka, along with a rear guard, followed Thrall closely behind.

"I hope you have a plan in mind, Warchief," Rita stated, pointing to the rubble blocking their way inside, and then at the warring going on down below. "Or else, you have just led us to our doom."

"Absolutely," he simply said. He concentrated his energies and mana on the rocks in their path, and in no time, they rose up into the air. Thrall raised his arms fluidly, and rocks and boulders flew higher. For a second, the stones shuddered, and then they were flung away into a pond of lava. "Let us make haste," he then said, taking the lead with his mighty Doomhammer in hand.

"Stay close everyone," were Thrall's first words upon entering through the ruined wall of Blackrock Spire. "And Jedo, you hold on for a second."

As the warchief pulled Jedo aside, the others wandered around the empty labyrinthian chamber that greeted them. It took quite some time for their eyes to adjust from the bright hot magma outside, not to mention the poor lighting in the immediate area did not help. So far, the way seemed safe.

"Jedo, before we progress through inside, you must promise me one thing."

"What would that be?"

Before Thrall could reply, he took a good look at the boy's eyes and saw purity and innocence behind all the hurt. It reassured him of what was needed to be said.

"That sword that you've been carrying around, it is almost a being in itself," he began to the best of his ability, the same ability that helped him decipher what the blade was in the first place. "Whoever enchanted it poured some mighty spirit into it, sealed it, and for whatever the reason made it so that it would end up in your hands. I sensed it the moment I met you, and as of now, I must say it is neither a benign or malicious spirit dwelling within. That means you have a responsibility; a responsibility to control it, control it's power, and control yourself when dealing with it. If I sense that your control over it has hindered, placing our fellow men in danger's way, I will attempt to disenchant the blade to the best of any shaman's abilities. Am I understood?"

"How do you know all this?" Jedo questioned, becoming more curious than threatened.

"I've only ever seen these kinds of enchantments a handful of times, mostly in dark rituals, but yes, it has a distinctive spiritual sensation. Like . . . walking into a haunted residence, almost, except the spirit is haunting the sword instead. Get it?" Jedo's expression became grim suddenly.

"What if . . . I do lose control over my weapon?"

"I believe you already know the answer to your question, Jedo. That sword is still a weapon. And as such, its wielder is still its master. You stop a weapon by stopping its master."

Thrall put his hand on the boy's shoulder, a substantially smaller figure below him, though by human standards, he was nearly an adult. The orc smiled, a rare sight these days, and nodded, a gesture of confidence stating things would end up fine under his charge.

"Warchief, there appears to be three different paths, and we haven't the time or the manpower to split up," Rita explained. "What will we do?"

"Hmm," Thrall pondered. "I wonder why Pala hasn't told us of any leads? After all, she claimed she saw all this through vague visions of prophecy."

"Yes, I've heard how she instructed the others on where to find Lady Lucrecia," she agreed.

After a brief silence, an explosion shook the corridors below them violently. They lost their footing for just a moment, then looked around for any immediate threats.

"What in Gaia's name was that?" Rita muttered..

"Hmph, the lower levels seem to be in upheaval," Greshka stated almost to herself.

"You sound troubled, Greshka," Thrall said. "Is there something amiss?"

"No . . . it's nothing," she replied. "I can tell you right now, our king is not going to be located up on this level, but rather below."

"To where that great eruption came from, terrific," Rita mused.

"This way," said the old orc, her strides strong and firm. She held a mace at her side, and though her armor was only mere leather tatters, she appeared as though she could hold her own. There were five Meridian soldiers with them as well: two casters, a knife-thrower, and two swordsmen. Thrall remembered from during their short time around the bonfire how many different lands each soldier was from. Despite being otherworlders, he felt a deep respect and comradery toward these people. Even more determined, he strode off after Greshka.

The orc lead them down a gigantic stairway, the whole team on guard from the rumbling that continued to shake the bottom floor. There they witnessed a downed blackrock orc- and off in the distance a human racing away into another corridor.

"Did you catch who that was?" Rita asked.

"A prisoner," Greshka stated, still uneasily, "so I was right. The prisons have been raided . . ."

"That could be good news," said Jedo. "King Varian's probably free. That could be him right now. Let's go."

"Or someone else could have gotten to him first," responded Rita who tried not to sound so pessimistic. Thrall, though, being quite the realist only when the time calls for it, nodded in agreement.

"Yes, let us follow carefully, for this could easily be a trap."

And so they followed the mysterious figure into the next chamber, a well-lit one twice the size as the latter. It was a domed room, still with a stone-red cast, a round depiction of a dragon on the heated stone floor. Around them were towering statues of famous dwarves of old, assumingly; Thrall had almost forgotten the history of this land from his readings, remembering that the Dark Iron Dwarves made their homes here. Further at the edge of the spacious chamber was a narrow route that spiraled up many feet to the top where a perch loomed menacingly. Apparently, dragons would roost there when on alert and take off from the roofless peak of the spire.

"Look out!" Jedo shouted, his sword at the ready as Thrall and Rita noticed the cause for alarm. Back the way they came arrived a small legion of armored Blackrock orcs, and up the spiral pathway, the same. They seemed to have materialized from nowhere, the group surrounded before they could even solve that mystery. "Here they come!"

The team gathered at the center of the wide rounded hall, the room filling up quickly. There was no time to even speak with the maddened orcs. Only their weapons spoke, and they spoke truer than any word ever could. Surrounded on two sides, the trapped intruders turned and spread apart slightly to face each side equally. The first to strike was the knife-thrower, who tossed two lightning-fast daggers in the blink of an eye. One orc was stabbed through the throat, dead just as he put his hands to the lethal projectile in a vain attempt to deflect it. The other knife found its way into the eye socket of another orc, but this one wouldn't die that easily. It continued its charge with the rest of them.

The two spellcasters they brought with them from the other ships had already begun to chant their spells. In the meantime, Thrall took advantage of the crowded room and used chain lightning magic to down several in one strike. As his elemental cache of mana started to recharge, he also summoned forth a half-dozen ghost wolves which charged the orcs with feral might. It was a decent enough distraction.

On the other side, Rita and one other swordsman had already begun to cut down the oncoming orcs. She swung her blade in a continuous three-sixty, going around twice, once high and then once low. In just that attack, two orcs lost their heads and another lost a leg. When she rose up, she struck the downed legless orc in the heart with relative ease. She saw the swordsman by her side use a similar technique, chopping off limbs first to make the deathblow easier. She charged her blade with electrical magic as her next fervent opponent drew near. She crouched down on one leg. The orc would never have guess what she had planned. Rita let the tip of her sword hit the ground, and in half a second, a shockwave charged forward at the heavy, lumbering orc. It was knocked off its feet, diving forward frantically at her. Fluidly, she spun up to her feet, and with a full swing of her longsword, severed one whole side of the assailant's neck. By the time it thumped onto the ground, it was as lifeless as the others. She turned up with a satisfied smile which faded when she heard, saw, her fellow swordsman get axed at the shoulder. Lost in a trance of bloodlust, the orc still struggled to bring the axe further down through the ribcage of the dying Meridian.

"Bastard!" she shouted as her weapon, still somewhat charged, plunged right into its skull. As she yelled in anger, so did her blade expel the electricity all at once. The orc's head literally popped. Together, the two corpses fell to the ground.

By then, the spellcasters had done a good job of making the orcs' ambush fail, particularly with foreign earth spells that projected crags from below to hinder their movements. This essentially created a maze, which made the horde of green men more manageable for their comrades. Jedo used this opportunity to his advantage, practicing his swings and aim. He found himself surprisingly more adept than before as he slit throats and cleaved through armor with some ease.

It wasn't until the orcs' numbers started to swell, and their's plummet, that the team began to feel pressured. Their knife-thrower managed to toss a barrage of knives as his last resort, killing five orcs at once just as a cleaver chopped him in two. One spellcaster decided, since she was surrounded, to assist her comrades by detonating herself first. She charged headfirst into the mob and set off a fiery explosion that caused a rain of orcish guts. As the remaining Meridians held strong, three more orcs launched a deadly rain of bolts from refurbished dwarven crossbows up the spiral path above. The last spell caster shot his own icicle stalagmite, just as two of the bolts struck him through the cheek and in his windpipe. His projectile went wild, lodging itself into the platform of one of his killers, shattering it and dropping the green savage and his ilk to their deaths. The rest fought on, remaining hopeful as the last of the orcs came charging in, blindly fighting with a fervor no one yet understood.

Thrall found a moment to actually breathe, which was when he noticed Greshka was gone. He looked about and only managed to see a grunt spinning his axe at an unaware Jedo. The boy turned to meet him too late; the axe's blade would either cleave him or take out his whole arm should he even try to guard himself.

"Jedo!" he shouted, the only thing he could do, but then, the blackrock orc was whacked out of the way, flying to the left wall. Blood splattered everywhere as he noticed the orc's head rolling to his feet. Thrall looked up and saw a large man standing beside Jedo. That man was none other than the king of Stormwind, Varian Wrynn, an unmistakable sight even to an orc.

"Are you alright, kid?" he asked, laying down the huge, bloodied maul in his hands. Jedo would not have recognized the man in any way, though. He was rugged and muscular, handsome, but very feral-looking. He had dark scraggly hair and thick dark eyebrows that overshadowed piercing dark eyes. He had nearly a full beard, a result of his captivity, however it seemed to suit his rugged build. He must have been in his early forties, though his physique could make him seem less so. Other than that, Jedo had absolutely no clue he stood before the true king. "You're . . . Xadek's boy aren't you? Those eyes, that determination. This is no coincidence."

"You're the king?" Rita asked as she sheathed her sword, the last orc falling to the ground.

"Yes, and apparently you must not be from around here," he said, wearing a tired smile. "I am the rightful king of Stormwind. And I've heard enough from the one who freed me. The times have changed so much while I was rotting in here as part of Onyxia and Nefarian's plot."

"Come again?" asked Thrall, very much interested in who was scheming all this.

"You! What is a foul orc doing amongst your ranks? Do not tell me he is our ally!"

"You were correct, your Highness," Thrall stated calmly. "The times have changed. And I promise you, the orcs- my orcs, they have reclaimed their honor and are-."

"I don't give a damn about your so-called honor!" spat Varian, unwilling to listen. "No matter what wars are going on at the moment, nothing will compare to the amount of death and carnage your ilk have spread! My father's heart was ripped out of his chest! My town was razed! War was waged on innocents! Don't think that in my time here in prison I have forgotten the childhood memories that will haunt me forever!"

"We have all wronged each other at some point! Yes, I know of it. But your people need you, this world needs you! And unless you can find some way to put your hatred aside, we won't get there in time to help! If you can't trust me, at least trust in Lady Rita, or Sir Jedo."

"How touching," came a sinister voice from behind the shadows of a corridor. "But it appears you're all too late. Should have just run off toward the sunset, holding hands, like the orc shaman advised, Varian."

"Who the hell's there?" Varian shouted, holding up the weapon at his side.

"I remember in your cell how you'd grumble about how you'd tear apart the one responsible for all of this. Well, here I am, Varian. I am just simply dying to see what it is you will try and do to me."

Several figures unveiled themselves from those shadows, putting everyone on their toes. One of them was Greshka, Thrall noticed. And while at first he suspected she was being held as a hostage, he soon noticed she had intentionally led them here. Another orc, one so nefarious, stood behind her; Blackhand, leader of the Dark Horde of Blackrock. Still, three others stood as well, unfamiliar to him.

"Blackhand you cowardly green slime!" Varian cried out. "You could never face me one on one, could you! You had to capture me and watch weakly as others did your fighting for you!" Blackhand just laughed at the bursts that came from the king's mouth.

"Yes, right, of course that's what I schemed! Foolish human! What we did was for the total control of your city! That's right! We own Stormwind, your precious human haven. And thanks to my dear mate, Urukal, or perhaps better known as 'Greshka', we have taken care of your rescue party, and with an added bonus: the warchief of the human-lovers, Thrall! "

"W-what? What have you done to Stormwind? Where's my son?"

"Tsk, tsk, Sir Varian," said the one sinister man. He appeared human, but was unmistakably supernatural. "That's no way for a noble to behave. Why, in my world, even the lowly Bolmaukan slaves have more manners than that."

"I asked you where's my son?" The enigmatic man continued on as though he had all the while remained silent, his eyes distant.

"For shame, your new comrades haven't even told you of your son's fate . . . ? Sad."

"What is he talking about?" Varian asked through his teeth, glaring at Thrall.

"Oh, my. So you _don't_ know about your dead son? Oops! How tactless of me! Yes, yes, he . . . fell ill, suddenly. Heh, I can assure you it was painless, er, somewhat. My apologies, did I come on too strongly with the news?"

"A-Anduin . . . ? No, Anduin, not you, my little boy! NO!" Falling to his knees, Thrall could see him clutch his maul in preparation for an assault. Turning to the cloaked man before them, he snarled disgustedly. The shaman sensed well what the cruel, snide man was. For one thing, the two attractive women by his side weren't women at all; they were demons, their auras undeniable. As for the man, the spirits about him were horrific, unbelievably strong and distorted. Though demonic he surely was, what he truly was composed of was a conundrum of enigmas. And yet, Thrall actually _had_ felt it before . . .

_My dreams, my visions . . . ! He was the one who put me under that curse, the one who is disturbing all of the spiritual balances and corrupting the warlocks! This is the one behind it all, I am sure of it. . ._

"Don't!" Thrall shouted, grabbing hold of Varian's arm.

"Let go of me, orc! He's going to die! Or do you want to be first!"

"Hear my name, Varian. My name is Vuelmont, and I shall be the new scourge of your people, and yours as well, orc. And while its been fun, it seems I have matters to attend to. Say hello to Anduin for me in the afterlife, both of them!"

Just as Varian was about to charge in after him, Jedo stood before the sorcerer first.

"Why don't you take me on, if the king is too poor a challenge," Jedo retorted. "I will defeat you. Is that why you shy away to your 'matters'?"

"Hmph! Ha, ha! Do you even comprehend what you are babbling, boy? Gutsy and stupid, just the kind of quarry I enjoy to obliterate on my spare time! Yes, I suppose I could indulge a bit."

The others could only watch in awe at what the young man just invited himself into. Undoubtedly, it would mean getting the others involved as well. Either way, there wouldn't be a clear way out of this mess. Everyone tensed up as they grasped their weapons, a mere two second stare-off. Both Blackhand and Urukal were at the ready with blade and mace in hand. The two female assassins and their liege stood nonchalantly as before. Only Jedo kept his gaze to that enigmatic sorcerer and no one else. Then, the silence within the chamber was broken. The mysterious Vuelmont didn't even move when he cast some unknown runic spell. It was a shadow rune spell meant to instantly kill a life form, however, Jedo wasn't playing a game of chicken. He swung his sword completely around, fanning the spell and fizzling it. He surely made it seem too easy.

"Hmm, very impressive," he let out, one hand to his chin. "Blackhand, Urukal, take care of the orc and company. Lede, Celia, eradicate the king, and painfully so. This pompous boy is mine!"

Rend Blackhand charged forth with a roar, his faithful wife remaining close behind. Thrall had hoped to support Jedo in what he saw as a foolish choice of action, but the leader of the Blackrock orcs was intent on spilling his blood, perhaps just an order or an old orcish rivalry. Either way, he swung away the quick blade with the shaft of his warhammer. Too quick was his saber, Thrall realized. He knew that with his bulkier weapon he would fall in one-on-one combat. And so, he deflected an attack once more and quickly jabbed the orc in his gut with the opposite end of his hammer. He then proceeded with a swift kick, effectively knocking the orc to the heated stone floor. He turned, an attempt at gaining ground, and ran across the treacherous Urukal, her face distorted into that of an angry demoness.

"The perfect chance to kill the orc warchief," she said in a low, dark tone. "My apologies, but I could not let down my fellow kinsmen, just as you could not let down your own."

She took her swing when she noticed Thrall had been momentarily caught off guard at the battle cry of her lover, Blackhand, from behind. It would have been the ideal moment to impact that anxious look off his face, but it never happened. Urukal felt the overwhelming burst of pain sink into her chest, her breath taken as she was lifted and thrown onto the ground away from the two warchiefs. In agony, she only vainly tried to grasp at the image of her Blackhand before falling dead. Rita tapped her bloodied sword on the ground, glaring at the dead body.

"And you never had a chance," she muttered. "Thrall, the king desperately needs assistance!"

"And Jedo?" he questioned quickly.

"Standstill," she replied just as swiftly. "But we know who we must help. Don't forget our goal."

The two quickly raced to the heat of battle, taking down any other orc that managed to make their way into the bloodied room. Not far away stood Varian locked in combat with the two demonic beauties. He could only stand there defending himself with his weapon held defensively, for the two assassins were unnaturally quick with their attacks. Even as their daggers danced with each graceful swing and stab, the pair looked more beautiful than any orc or human ever to exist. Thrall and Rita split up to take on one woman each. Rita made the first strike, her longsword parried by a mere dagger. Amazed but still on guard, Rita tried to force her locked weapon down on the tiny blade she held but could not manage. She caught a glimpse of the woman's face, striking and lovely, yet empty and savage, as though she craved her moment of death. She had long blond hair and would have appeared frail and kind if she were mortal.

Thrall meanwhile was concentrating on Lede, the other demon twin. Her short blond hair, down to her ears, revealed pointed demonic ears that her counterpart, Celia, hid. Still, Thrall saw her for what she truly was, making her appear grotesque and horrifying instead. He had been blasting spouts of flames that should have homed in on her. However, she quickly disappeared after every spell.

It was Jedo who was struggling the most. The magician wasn't through toying yet, and although Jedo knew Vuelmont's strongest attack wasn't even close to being attempted, his own was too being withheld. But he could not get what Thrall said to him earlier out of his mind. Surely it was this freak of nature that was responsible for his father's death, whether directly or indirectly. Anger shot up at the thought of that horrible moment, and suddenly, he no longer was tiring. Vuelmont soon began to feel boredom peak, however.

"Enough of your ability to bore one to sleep! If that is how you plan to defeat me, then the battle is already lost! Goodbye, you sodding excuse for a life-form." He suddenly began to hover, hands raised at the ready. Fires wisped from them, electricity molded those flames into something tangible, and finally devastating winds picked up the mass to form a tornado that would shred an ordinary person to dust.

And it was gone. When the tornado vanished, all Vuelmont could see was Jedo's face, charging for him, his glowing blade nearing his throat. The magician was gone, teleporting behind the boy. He gasped when he reappeared, noticed blood dripping from his upper cheek; the blade had actually met? And how it burned! He took another look at the sword and mentally kicked himself in the ass for not realizing it sooner. It was _the_ blade. There was much pondering to be done. The artifact would not ruin his plans, but . . .

"Lede, Celia, cover our retreat," he commanded. "Rend, I assume you'll sit there until your wench expires?"

Blackhand did not even look up as he sat beside his dying Urukal. Her eyes finally shut, and he was finally out of his shock.

"No . . . no! They will not escape! They shall DIE!"

"Do what you will," said Vuelmont, smirking as though his fit of rage was amusing him, "after all, I did put you in charge, and _this_ was the best you could do? I have more pressing matters at hand, and time is of the essence." With those final words, he and his two assassins vanished with a burst of dark nether energies. Catching their breathes, the survivors watched as Blackhand sounded a strange horn he had stowed away in a pouch. As he blew, so did another. And then another, and another. It was a signal, a queue for something more elaborate, perhaps a back-up plan?

"I think we had better go," advised Rita, although the others already seemed adamant on that idea as well. Only Varian still glared at the Blackrock leader with extreme prejudice. "Don't even think about it, your highness," she added, pulling him away gently.

They sped off the way came, occasionally hearing the marching of armored forces outside the walls. It was when they heard the roars and the beating of heavy wings that they began to worry. There was absolutely no resistance for them as they finally saw the bright orange-red light of the Burning Steppes, only there were even more lights. Explosions and lights.

"They've spotted us!" Rita hissed.

"We have to stop the attack somehow, or we're stranded here," Thrall said, pulling out his weapon. The rest of the company followed suit, yet hesitated slightly.

"Ignoring the fact this whole spire is surrounded by dragons, orcs, and elementals, it would take days, no, weeks to make it safely back to even a single human camp!" the king added. "There's no turning back, either way!"

"But how can we take down the bulk of their forces, just the dragons themselves will be impossible?" Rita said, sounding exhausted.

"I'm going to Stormwind, one way or another!" roared King Anduin, as he smashed his way through random rubble in his way.

"He's right, we have to at least try!" shouted Jedo.

There was an especially loud explosion amidst the sounds of turrets and screeching, and then the sound of screams, death-cries. Thrall seemed to recognize one in particular, and he was off, shouting "No!" The others caught up to see the orc leader beside a red-haired, robed woman laying on the ground.

"Menara!" Rita cried, and soon they were all there in the middle of all the death.

"Can you hear me, Menara?" Thrall asked, holding her up. Her wounds weren't too grave, but she had been knocked pretty badly by the impact of an immense attack. Behind him, Thrall could hear Rita yelling something like, "here they come!", even heard combat getting nearer, but he could not allow her to remain out in the open like this.

"The plan," she muttered softly as her eyes opened vaguely. "The plan . . . was to distract any assailants with illusory magic. Someone saw me out, I guess. I'm sorry, Thrall. I've failed our people." Thrall shook his head, eyes stern.

"We can find a way to fix this, are you hurt?"

"No, but I've learned something . . . disturbing. There's a traitor in our group. When I tried to initiate the plan, just as repairs were just about finished, I was attacked by-."

PEW! PEW!

In a flash, there was blood spattered all about, but it wasn't Thrall's; he had his electric spirit shield on the moment he entered and found . . .

"Menara . . ."

There was a single bullet shot from some rifle, directly in Menara's forehead, clean and professional. Her expression remained the same as a second ago until her head finally slumped in his arms, her eyes half shutting. He instinctively turned around, saw no one, but then there he was, in plain combat. Standing atop several red stones and blasting away with his rifle was Kolark, the only member of the team he knew used a gun, and very well, too.

But then, tearing him from the horrible discovery and the assassination of his comrade, there was a high-pitched, sheering sound all around the area. Lights flashed, more blinding than that of the molten lakes around and below them. Dragons, orcs, and Meredians alike gasped, shrieked, and roared at the phantasmal aura. He needn't not look at the blinding spark that covered his remaining getaway ships, because it was a spell, one that was meant to save them. From it flung several slow-moving, gigantic fireballs that each found a dragon for its mark. The "fireballs" were more like concussive bombs that sent the reptilian terrors free falling into jagged stone or lava. The light soon gave way to two fighters, both female. One was a mysterious mage in dark, raggedy robes. The other was a smaller young woman in an agile stance, a rapier in one hand. The roguish girl nodded to her companion, and almost reluctantly, the dark mage raised her hand high, palm out. Shadows flittered up and around the ships, a temporary layer of protection. The shades acted as a deterrent as well, flying toward invaders' eyes in an attempt to blind them. A swift setback to Blackhand's final strike. Thrall's eyes met the roguish girl's. She pointed her rapier down below, and he saw it. Down further was a pit of fervent elementals amassing due to the gathering of Blackhand's ascending troops.

"Warchief, your orders!" cried Rita. To her back was Anduin, and farther away, on his own, fought Jedo. It was a winning fight . . . for now. And the perfect time to signal a speedy retreat. Whoever these women were, they saved their lives duly.

"Let us leave the Dark Horde to their crimson fate down below," he replied. With a nod, she let out a battle cry to her fellow Meredians, signaling with her blade a retreat. He couldn't help turn back to Menara's body. He lifted her up and ran for the primary vessel, not forgetting for a second the culprit responsible for it.

* * *

Rend Blackhand watched the blond assassin woman depart, just after she handed him this gift. This was just after he watched his quarry run off with his greatest prize: King Anduin Wrynn. His plan to capture the rebels' best, to make demands and finish their tirade long before it became a major problem; ruined. It was no bother, since Vuelmont spared him so that he may fight again, plus Onyxia was already en route to intercept them if they actually survived the ambush. But Urukal . . .

"My darling, gone . . ."

He stared emptily at his true prize. Her blood was still fresh. It was all still betrayal. Vuelmont wanted only to muse at how feeble he was, how incompetent of an orc he must have been to lose it all. He looked once more at her. Maybe there was still a way after all. He took the gift, the fruit given to him by Vuelmont's mistress and knew what came next. He bit into it, hard, a bite fueled by hate and regret and resentment. He felt his skin tingle, his hands shake. But still he hung on. He fell to his knees and placed a purple-hued, glowing hand on Urukal's blood. As though repulsed, the blood shrank back into Urukal's body, shriveling it, changing it. Changing him. It was done. The broken promise was resealed again.


End file.
